Nauseous
by SalomeLily
Summary: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are the ultimate impossible romance. Ergo, why not? Set six years after the Second War. Draco Malfoy is feeling increasingly angsty and bored until Hermione Granger comes back into his life. Hermione, though she wouldn't admit it to herself, is tired of an increasingly platonic relationship with Ron. Manipulation abounds.
1. Of Nausea and Elfin Trials

"_Something has happened to me, I can't doubt it anymore. It came as an illness does, not like an ordinary certainty, not like anything evident. It came cunningly, little by litte; I felt a little strange, a little put out, that's all . . . And now, it's blossoming_."

-_Nausea_, by Jean-Paul Sartre. Translated by Lloyd Alexander.

The nausea was growing worse.

This was what Draco Malfoy had dubbed his increasing disenchantment with the world, his emotional detatchement even as his body was still affixed to the corporeal.

He looked down at his own arm and was annoyed to see it there, looking stupid and pointless. The cuff of his black robes extending almost to his pale fingers was equally superfluous. Usually the sight of his own beautifully sculpted hand made Draco pleased at its aesthetic flawlessness, but today he was just irritated at its continued existence, along with the rest of his body.

It occured to him that he should get a job, since employed wizards did not seem to have such angsty thoughts. It was not as though he needed the money. His family was independently wealthy due to Muggle investments, though his father would commit _hara kiri_ before admitting it to an outsider. Alas, no employment idea seemed to catch his interest sufficiently for further exploration. The ridiculousness of the situation strcuk him rather suddenly - in the postwar boom of increased prosperity and equality, a wealthy young aristocrat was sitting at a table in the corner of the Three Broomsticks, contemplating his own slender hands and wondering what the hell he was good for. Perhaps he ought to throw himself off the Hogwarts Astronomy Tower and quit wasting clothing.

Draco was momentarily distracted from his dark musings by the arrival of his girlfriend, Astoria Greengrass. They had met through her older sister Daphne, who had been Draco's acquiantance at school. Astoria was a very pretty witch, with clear green eyes, an aristocratic face, and brown hair that was currently swept into a low chignon. She was younger than Draco - only twenty years old, actually, to Draco's twenty-four. Her most noticable characteristic was her petiteness - not only was she over a head shorter than her admittedly tall boyfriend, but her very frame had that disarmingly fragile, birdlike look.

Draco ought to have felt pleased to see her, but actually all he registered was a subtle sort of crumbling away at his pride that she had encountered him in a cheap pub. Not even existential angst and suicidal thoughts could discourage the Malfoy pride from surfacing. Nonetheless, he approached her.

"Hello, Astoria," he said, feeling too flat to think up a snappy pick-up line. Anyway, Draco hadn't tried most of his "usual" flirtatious nonsense on Astoria. Despite her youth, she was a serious woman who gave favor in rare unexpected smiles rather than giggles and cheap antics. Draco had been given to wondering if her maturity and suitability indicated that this was the relationship he had been waiting for. Whenever he had thought of walking to the altar, it had been with a woman like Astoria: aside from her family's wealth and desirable blood status, she was beautiful, reserved, diplomatic, soft-spoken, and intelligent. It occured suddenly to Draco how remarkably similar she was to his mother.

"Hello, Draco. I was looking for you," she said calmly. "Daphne suggested you might be here."

"I was just leaving. Unless you want something to drink?" The courtesy was an afterthought, as always. Lucius Malfoy had impressed upon his son the great importance of incidental meetings and small gestures to a greater end, but chivalry was simply not in Draco's nature.

"No, thank you. Shall we go to London? There's something that requires our attention at the Ministry."

Draco simply nodded, unsure whether she meant "our" collectively or was utilizing the majestic plural to refer to herself. He casually set several Sickles on the table and signaled to Madame Rosmerta that he was leaving, then took Astoria's elbow. The pair exited through the pub door as a courtesy before Disapparating to the Ministry of Magic.

They walked through the restored Atrium. Draco had not been inside since his father's trial, and he felt vague satisfaction to note that the hideous MAGIC IS MIGHT monument had been replaced. Where the insipid, hypocritical Fountain of Magical Bretheren had once stood, a massive, magnificent blown-glass phoenix soared towards the ceiling. Sunlight streamed through the immobile icelike glass, turning the grey London light filtering weakly through the glass ceiling into a lush array of reds and golds. Ingraved in its snowy marble base were the Latin words SIMUL RESURGET EX FAVILLA.

Draco noted this beauty with the analytical coldness of a jaded theatre critic sitting through a rehash of _Evita_. Yes, the phoenix's neck was elegantly fluted in the Irish style, and yes, the space was being much more effectively lit than ever before, but his sense of _pathos_ was unruffled. Draco was beginning to doubt whether his _pathos_ hadn't been entirely done away with by the nausea.

"So, why are we here?" he asked of Astoria as they stepped into the lift, trying to prevent boredom from creeping into his tone.

"Your father is at a hearing."

"Again?" Draco was more bemused than genuinely surprised. "I thought we overcame the little matter of treason to everyone's satisfaction. Is he locking up another one of his friends?"

"Actually," said Astoria, a note of amusement entering her tone, "it's about your house elf, Spotty."

"Dotty," corrected Draco automatically, before her words fully registered. At last, a needle of surprise prodded his ennui-wearied brain. "Wait, _what_?"

"Apparently there's a new Ministry Department, DEW." Astoria's thin shoulders were vibrating with repressed laughter. "The Department of Elfish Welfare. It's one of these _progressive_ ones that popped up like weeds after the Second War; there are approximately four people in it. Anyway, there have been a series of aggressive investigations into the owners of house elves, and Lucius Malfoy has been apprehended for various misdemeanors."

"Is it a criminal hearing?" Draco frankly didn't care, but it was best to know as much as possible.

"I don't know. I assume not, since I am allowed to attend, though not family."

"Ah." They stepped out of the lift and proceeded down the hall to the door that Astoria indicated.

It was a small room, not really a courtroom at all. There was only one chair beside a podium in the center of the room, facing one long desk with eight chairs seated behind it. There were three or four additional chairs grouped in a random-seeming clump to one side.

A few witches and wizards were milling about near the long desk. One of them was Lucius Malfoy, who acknowledged his son with a curt nod as he seated himself in the solitary chair.

One of the witches turned around, and Draco felt like someone had hit him in the midsection with a Bludger. Only _that face_ could ever get such a rise out of him.

He tried to collect himself and stood coolly observing the scene as the witches and wizards started setting papers on the desk and settling into chairs. His flinty gaze, however, was fixated on _her_. His antithesis.

It was unmistakeably Hermione Jean Granger. The notoriously busy hair had been corralled into a messy bun at the nape of her neck and the Hogwarts robes had been traded for a slate-colored robe over a Muggle pencil skirt, but Draco recognised her petulant brown eyes instantly. Those eyes had directed more potent unadulterated hate at him than he had believed optic receptors were capable of - and Draco had been glared at by the Dark Lord. The nausea was banished unceremoniously to the recesses of his mind as he was forcibly reminded of certain Hermiocentric memories . . . Hermione's anxious buck-toothed face under the Sorting Hat, Hermione Petrified, Hermione's fist breaking his nose, Hermione in a floaty perriwinkle dress, Hermione hexing him senseless, Hermione fearlessly dueling Death Eaters, Hermione screaming, screaming, as Bellatrix Lestrange's knife pierced -

Draco tore himself back to the present, which was suddenly looking more interesting. How can one feel that there is no point to existence when one's favourite nemesis has just recognized one and is piercing one with a killer glare?

Hermione glared at Draco Malfoy. He was standing near the closed door, his pale arachnoid fingers casually arranged in the triangular debate-power-position over his diaphragm. She _hated_ that he could just waltz into her well-organised court and stand there in elegant black robes, unconsciously expressing dominance and ease with his body language. His wintry eyes followed her with a very strange expression that was somehow at odds with his in-control posture. Hermione was reminded forcibly of a hungry ferret.

"Draco Malfoy," she addressed him in officious tones. She considered shaking his hand, but it didn't seem fitting somehow. There was no pretending that it wasn't awkward, encountering an old enemy who was also a potential witness at his father's hearing who had also happened to see her at her most vulnerable moment . . .

Hermione dropped that highly unpleasant train of thought as soon as it occured to her, though her hand drifted unconsciously to her other forearm.

"Hermione Granger." If she had considered courtesy before, that idea was out the _window_ when he smirked at her. Just like old times. Her blood began to heat at the sight of the smirk that had tormented her school days. "So, what have you been doing since the war?"

"I am the founder and head of DEW." She enunciated each letter of D - E - W. The petite brunette witch beside Malfoy tittered. Hermione glanced at her in vague surprise; she had been so fixated on The Blond Antithesis that she hadn't really noticed her.

"Do

tell me, is this a civil or criminal hearing?"

Hermione suspected that he had put intentional emphasis on "do".

"Civil," she conceeded reluctantly. "But just wait," she hissed, "until I can make the abuse of house elves a criminal offense!"

To her immense surprise, Draco's smirk suddenly looked as though it was struggling to keep from blossoming into a smile.

"I certainly cannot wait, if it means that I get to see my lovely ray of anti-sunshine again." His smirk widened at her obvious indignation. "How does this kangaroo court work, exactly?"

"Dotty will testify, then your father, then any additional witnesses. My committee will vote deciding Lucius Malfoy's guilt or innocence. There must be a two-thirds majority vote to decide his guilt." Hermione restrained herself from retorting with regards to the "kangaroo court" jibe. She knew that he was baiting her, but several comebacks rose to her tongue unbidden.

"And if he is found guilty?"

"As of now, the fine can range anywhere from 100 to 3000 Galleons, depending on the offense."

Draco's pale eyebrows shot up.

"Besides which," continued Hermione, "Dotty can be removed from your employ."

"How do you mean? By freeing her?"

"Not unless she requests it." A faint frown marred Hermione's expression. She was still having a difficult time wrapping her mind around what she viewed as the rampant Stockholm Syndrome of the elves. "The Ministry now has the power to remove house elves from their employers, in the most extreme cases. They can then be placed with another family on the waiting list, or if no other options are open, sent to Hogwarts."

"How riveting." Hermione was slightly ruffled by Malfoy's evident nonchalance. "I believe your associates are ready _commencer_ . . . ?"

It was true; the seven other committee members were looking expectantly at her. She blushed and scurried to collect her papers from where she had left them on the desk. As spectators, Malfoy and the young witch seated themselves in the randomly grouped chairs off to the side.

To her acute embarrassment, Malfoy had gotten _much_ smoother since their school days. He was approaching even his father's slipperiness level, which was saying quite a lot. He had also gotten better-looking, if that was possible (bad thought, bad thought!). His white-blond hair was growing out a bit, and though it wasn't quite shoulder-length, it looked really good.

Hermione shook herself slightly as though getting water out of her ears. She carried her papers to the podium at the front of the room.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy, fellow Department members, guests. We have gathered today for a hearing regarding the alleged abuse of Dotty, a house elf in the employ of the Malfoy family. The abuse complaint was filed by a witch of wizard who chooses to remain anonymous. Lucius Malfoy, as the defendant, please summon Dotty."

Looking bored and supercilious, Mr. Malfoy snapped his fingers. A small house elf appeared with a _crack_. She was wearing what appeared to be a grey linen pillowcase with holes for her arms and head. Hermione noted that it was clean.

"Dotty, at Master's service," she squeaked. Her enormous green eyes bulged when she observed the room full of witches and wizards. Hermione smiled gently at her in an attempt to put her at ease. The elf reminded her very strongly of Dobby.

"Good afternoon, Dotty. You have been summoned here for a hearing."

"Dotty hasn't done it!" she said, her voice squeaking up an octave in alarm. "Dotty is an innocent elf!"

"No, you are not the one on trial," said Hermione, used to this reaction. Really, she would have to seriously consider rephrasing the opening statement. "Your master is on trial because our department, D - E - W, received a report that you had been abused."

"Master would never," said Dotty anxiously. "Master is the best of wizards."

"Mr. Malfoy," said Hermione in disgust, "please repeat after me: _Dotty, you must tell the complete truth when asked questions._"

"Dotty, you must tell the complete truth when asked questions."

"Yes, Master."

"Thank you. Now, if we may proceed with the examination . . ."

The trial was one of the easiest of Hermione's career thus far. Once commanded to tell the truth, Dotty admitted that she had been beated regularly, threatened with death, and on one occasaion, forced to shut her own ears in the oven door.

To her immense surprise, Lucius Malfoy didn't even try to deny anything.

"I demmand that the court take a short recess," he drawled. Hermione was mystified, but she couldn't exactly turn down the request. The committee members rose, chattering together with small talk. To Hermione's further surprise and suspicion, the defendant did not hold himself aloof, but went first to Draco, muttering something in his ear, then Lucius Malfoy and the brunette witch joined the committee members in their exchange of pleasantries. Hermione tried to join them, suspicious of how he might attempt to sway them, but her path was arrested by Draco Malfoy. He put a hand on her elbow, light yet unmistakeably a barrier. He leaned close to her.

"Excellent job, Granger," he murmured, his lips mere inches from her hair. Deplorably, she was quite a bit shorter than him. _Is Le Blond trying to seduce me, or what?_ she wondered, frazzled. "You've definitely proven him guilty. But, you know, a fine wouldn't really be a punishment for a Malfoy. The only thing that really matters to my father is pride."

Whatishedoingwhatishedoing

. . . his sinewy grip tightened on her wrist. Hermione felt a faint shiver of revulsion.

"You know, this will be all over the _Prophet_," he continued. "The humiliation alone is quite a punishment. And in case you hadn't noticed, we Malfoys are wonderfully adaptive. If told _not_ to shut Dotty's ears in the oven door, we shall not do so again."

"Adaptive? Oh, is _that_ what it means when you flee to the Dark Arts for two wars in a row and come off scot-free?" she demmanded.

His grey eyes darkened and he let go of her wrist. "Old prejudices, much? Our societal debt has been payed off _in spades_, I believe. Two-thirds of the current Azkaban residents are there because of my father. Now, is it really right to prosecute such a committed advocate of social justice?"

"Wh - what does that have to do with elf abuse charges! Ridiculous!"

"In all fairness, you brought it up."

"You forget, Malfoy, that we are no longer at school, but are responsible adults at a formal hearing. If you continue soliciting in this manner, I shall report you. And for Merlin's sake, take a step back. Your cologne is nauseating me."

He smirked. "Égoïste by Chanel. You like?"

"Ah . . . I should have guessed. You saw your chief personality trait on a bottle of cologne and knew that it was meant for you." Though she would _never_ admit it, Hermione did like it. It was woody and a bit spicy . . . actually, the opposite of its cold, metallic wearer.

"Touché, Granger. What are you wearing? Rosa Alba by Happ & Stahns?"

"How did you know?" demmanded Hermione, suddenly flustered.

"I have my ways. Now, I think we are ready to proceed with the hearing. _Do_ keep what I said in mind."

How, how, _how _did he always know how to push her buttons?

It was altogether too easy to push Granger's buttons.

That didn't mean that Draco wasn't enjoying himself, of course. Because he definitely was. There was an unprecedented satisfaction in watching her expressive face respond to his insults and innuendos. And she had to go and use the word "nauseating". Of course, she wasn't using it in the philosophical sense, but it had been a word so often on his mind lately that it had given him a jolt nonetheless.

The perfume thing was lucky. Astoria had been testing that very fragrance out the previous week before deciding that it was too floral and "juvenile". She was much more suited to Tocca's Florence.

Draco knew fully well that he was a metrosexual. He was rather proud of it, when he wasn't wallowing in angst. After all, women were generally more impressed with a straight man who dressed well and cared which perfume they were wearing than the plebeian model of traditional masculine vigor.

Oh, but he had overlooked the fact that Granger would be more drawn to such a proletarian stereotype . . . she was dating the Weasel, wasn't she? Ah, well. The next time that his father asked him to "distract the Mudblood", he would keep that in mind.

Lucius Malfoy asnwered the questions coolly and eloquently. He waffled a bit about the traditional hierarchy and then opened a flaw in the DEW case that Granger was making.

"Tell me, when were thses laws passed?"

Granger shuffled her papers, unruffled. "March 15th of this year."

"Perhaps the highly respected and established DEW," he sneered, "should ask my elf when exactly she shut her ears in the oven door."

It was a fair point. Hermione blinked, unsettled.

"Dotty, when were you forced to shut your ears in the oven door?"

The green eyes blinked. "Dotty doesn't remember, miss."

"Can you give us a rough time estimate?"

"Oh, about a year ago, probably. Dotty remembers that it was autumn."

Granger's cool expression slipped. She looked suddenly unsteady.

"When is the last time that you were beaten?"

"Last week, miss."

The self-satisfied look returned.

"How many times have you been beaten since March 15th of this year?"

"Once a week, miss. Sometimes extra hittings if Dotty does something wrong."

The committee scribbled on their notes.

"That concludes our hearing, unless Dotty or Mr. Malfoy has any further statements to make or witnesses to call."

With a terrified glance at her master, Dotty shook her head vigorously until her batlike ears flapped.

"The committee will now deliberate in private." Granger waved her wand, and a soundproof blue screen blocked her and the seven other committee members from view.

After about fifteen minutes, the screen vanished. Granger ascended the podium. Her expression was neutral, but the pink flush of anger on her cheeks betrayed her to Draco.

"The assmebly here today finds the defendant Lucius Malfoy guilty of Mild Physical Abuse, under DEW Article 3.4. The sentence is a fine of two hundred Galleons. This fine must be payed by the first of January three months hence, or - "

"I have it now - in gold." Lucius pulled out his wand and a cascade of heavy gold coins streamed from the tip into a green drawstring bag that he had fabricated out of thin air. Draco knew that his father had arranged an instant connection from their Gringotts vault to his wand, but even he was mildly impressed as the pouch was filled to bulging with gold and levitated onto the desk with a metallic _thud_.

"Yes. Well," continued Granger, clearing her throat. "You are also on probation. Three months hence, Dotty shall be summoned here and questioned by one of the members of our department. If conditions have not improved, then she shall be removed from your employment and the fine increased exponentially. You are free to leave. Court adjourned."

That had been truly entertaining. Obviously the sentence had been lowered, due to the bribery of a one Lucius Mafoy while Draco distracted Granger. No doubt she was angry.

Speaking of which, Draco saw a certain witch approaching him with a petulant expression. Hair was escaping her bun and forming a halo of frizz around her face.

"I know what you did, and rest assured that justice will find a way."

"How mystifying. Anyway, Granger, it's been _interesting_ to see you again. Owl me and we can have lunch some time. Bring the Weasel and we can reminise about the old days." He smirked at her bemusement and pressed a sleek calling card into her hand.

She would send him an owl eventually. If her life was half as boring as his, she wouldn't be able to resist.


	2. Of Mood Swings and Quidditch

_"There was something in her eyes that made me trust her. Maybe it was because they held the same cynicism, the same world-weariness I saw in my own every morning when I looked at myself in the mirror."_

-_Corcitura_, by Melika Dannese Lux.

Hermione fumbled in her purse for the key to her flat. Really, putting an Undetectable Extension charm on her purse just so she could carry around a veritable mobile library of legal books had caused more problems than it solved.

It was a week since the Malfoy hearing, and the strain of DEW was starting to wear out Hermione's vigor. She had entered the job enthusiastic and full of great ideas, but after three and a half years, it was starting to drag. For one thing, there weren't nearly as many abused house elves as she had believed. Only a select number of families had house elves to begin with, and her department had already dealt with the abusive owners. Not owners, employers! She had fought hard to change the language of the legal texts from "owners" to "employers", a seemingly trivial detail that could greatly affect the way that wizards viewed elves as a species. Semantics were very important when it came to delicate issues.

She abandoned her quest and pointed her wand into the depths of the purse, muttering "Accio key." It leapt obligingly into her hand, as though it had never been lost to begin with. Hermione entered the small, cheerful flat. She had decorated it in tones of red and grey, and the effect was both warm and upscale. The London dusk was a crumbling blue-grey outside the small window.

She slumped onto the sofa, hugging a red throw pillow to her chest. One thing she hadn't anticipated was the sheer dullness of the job. She had pictured another case like the Malfoy case every week, she a triumphant crusader for justice at the helm of DEW. Actually, she had been trying to nail the Malfoys for ages, but she hadn't had enough proof to warrant a hearing until that anonymous report. Who had filed that, by the way? It was really puzzling. Obviously it couldn't have been any of the Malfoys; could it have been a family friend of theirs?

Hermione groaned and kicked off her shoes, rubbing her blistered feet. She had outgrown DEW. Was it wrong to hope that she could be promoted? She was painfully aware that DEW would fall into disorganization and obscurity if she left. Just look at how easily her associates were bribed by that snake, Lucius Malfoy. She knew that it was important work, but at the same time she didn't want to have to be the one to do it. Was that a hypocritical and petty thought?

Her reverie was broken by the sound of an ecstatic tapping. Hermione walked to the window and pushed it up, wincing at the unoiled squeak that it made. A tiny grey owl zoomed excitedly into the room, ever enthusiastic to deliver a letter.

"Pigwidgeon!" said Hermione in exasperation, feeling her face crack into a grin. "Hold still for a moment. Merlin, why can't I ever convince Ron to just call me?" With difficulty, she untied the rolled-up parchment from Pigwidgeon's leg and encouraged him to sit still by tossing his an owl treat from the tin she kept on the window ledge for just such occasions.

_Hermione,_

_Want to go out tomorrow? Ginny got us prime tickets to a Harpies game._

_-Ron_

Hermione felt her heart sinking. There were several reasons for this. The most obvious was that he had neither bothered to put "dear" in the salutation nor "love" in the closing. There was also the tangible fact that Hermione hated watching professional Quidditch, which came with the subtler truth that Ron had not observed this.

Ah . . . Ron. Their relationship, though harmonious, somehow left many things to be desired. It had started out as a platonic friendship, with something more thrilling slowly replacing camaraderie. The war had escalated things - increased tension led to more passion in both arguments and embraces. Besides which, there was the whole "We could die tomorrow, so let's snog now" mentality. After the war, they had needed one another for mutual support through the haze of pain.

And now . . . ? Hermione felt like a spoiled brat for even thinking it, but she was bored. She was bored of going out with someone who had the emotional range of a teaspoon. Their friendship was stronger than ever, but . . . the schoolgirl crush was starting to fade. Hermione had once asked her mother whether she had ever gotten bored of loving her father.

_Mrs. Granger's brow crinkled. "Why, honey? Are you worried that your father and I are getting a divorce?"_

_"No, Mum, it's just . . . I've heard people call the beginning of a relationship the 'honeymoon phase'. What happens after that? Does it stop being love and just become companionship?"_

_"Not exactly. It's hard to explain. When I was about your age, I dated a young man named Nathan. I thought I was in love with him . . . he was my first serious boyfriend, you see. After a while, it was like you described. I just found that all the sparkle had gone from our relationship."_

_"What did you do?"_

_"Oh, I found some excuse to break up with him. I claimed to be jealous of his pretty cousin Emily after he kissed her on the cheek." She smiled wistfully. "Nathan was really cut up, but he found happiness with someone else. We kept in touch; he lives in New Guinea now, with his wife and sons."_

_"What about you and Dad?"_

_"Your father was different. We met through work, you know."_

_Hermione nodded; she had heard the story of the Granger parents before._

_"Well, I expected it to spark out like it did with Nathan. But it never did. True, it wasn't quite as thrilling as it was when we were first together, but I still felt electricity when he held my hand. Still do, actually." Mother and daughter sighed blissfully in synchronization. "That's when I knew that I should marry him and spend the rest of my life with him."_

_"Wow." Hermione struggled to find the right words to respond. "That's sweet."_

Hermione was jolted from her flashback by Pigwidgeon's expectant hoot.

"Yes, yes, Pig, very well," she muttered, seating herself on the floor with a parchment and some ink.

Dear Ron,

I would love to go to the game with you. Shall we rendezvous for lunch before?

Affectionately,

Hermione

Hermioen couldn't think of another way to accept without saying "I'd love to go," or she would have written it. She hoped that the note's brevity and lack of exclamation points would say what was left unsaid, but Ron would most likely not pick up on it. She sighed and tied the note to Pigwidegeon's claw before sending him back out into the night.

Draco's nausea had been ebbing back ever since the trial the previous week. He wanted nothing more than to hide in the cool silvery shadows of Malfoy Manor and ignore existence itself, and yet here he was, in the top box of a Quidditch stadium, mindlessly spectating as the Holyhead Harpies prepared to play the Montrose Magpies.

Really, it was Blaise Zabini's fault. Draco was eager to remain on good terms with him as Blaise was one of the few of Draco's former Hogwarts friends with whom he could be seen in public. Blaise had also politely extended the invitation to include Astoria, but she had declined on some excuse.

Draco found himself studying his own hand again as Blaise chattered about the game. It was statuesque and nearly flawless. But why, fundamentally, was it attached to his arm? More pressingly, why did he possess fingernails? They were merely a remnant of primitive animalian claws. Admittedly they were useful for opening things, but why did he even open things? When he was too lazy to reach for his wand? Why weren't all wizards merely obese, floating globs of flesh, hovering in space and summoning themselves whatever they wanted?

These questions, though highly important to Draco in his detached state, were interrupted by one of Blaise's.

"She's still really hot, isn't she?"

"Sorry?" started Draco. Annoyance flitted across his friend's features.

"The Weasley girl."

"How would I know?" sneered Draco.

"Come off it! I just pointed her out to you. She's on the Harpies, remember? Were you even listening to me?"

"Oh. I see." Draco squinted down at the pitch. "She still has red hair," he deadpanned unhelpfully.

"You idiot." Blaise handed him a pair of Omnioculars. Draco lifted them and peered at Ginny Weasley, who was indeed wearing the dark green Harpy robes and clutching a broom. He could recognize no beauty in her features, but then, he recognized no beauty in anything.

"Her face is well-proportioned," he noted diplomatically. Blaise slapped a hand to his own forehead in frustration.

"Are you so attached to your girlfriend that you won't even ogle random girls that we went to school with?" he whined.

"Truth be told, I'm not really attached to anything right now."

"You, my compatriot, are depressed."

"Interesting idea."

Blaise looked up as a couple entered the box. "_Draco," _he hissed under his breath. "_Don't look now, but two-thirds of the trio just walked in."_

Draco disobeyed, turning his head sharply. His pulse sped up slightly, a reflex action. There they were, Granger and the Weasel.

To his surprise, Granger was wearing Muggle clothing: tailored tan-colored trousers, a violet scoop-neck blouse, and a fitted black blazer. Odd color combination, but the effect was neat. Lacking a pair of oversize Nicole Richie sunglasses, perhaps, but not unstylish. The infamous hair was piled in a knot on top of her head. Somehow the blazer emphasized the narrowness of her shoulders.

By contrast, the Weasel was wearing dark blue robes. A safe option, to say the least. Then again, with hair that annoyingly orange, one would need to make conservative choices.

"We're really lucky that Ginny could get these seats," he was saying to her. "Apparently someone tried to rent the whole bloody box . . . oh." Ronald Weasley caught sight of his old nemesis. Draco sneered, taking care to look as challenging as possible. What is wrong with me, that I require the presence of my old school grudges to feel satisfied? he wondered. Oh, well. There were worse addictions.

"Weasley, Granger. Good afternoon," he said superciliously, not bothering to stand but instead lazily stretching over the back of his seat like a cat to look at them upside down.

"Hello, Malfoy," said Weasley with a pathetic attempt at aristocratic indifference. He ended up sounding merely stiff and uncomfortable. Draco briefly considered making a classist remark for old times' sake, then decided that his snarkiness had evolved sufficiently to wound without use of a blunt instrument. He rolled back into an upright position and stood, scrutinizing them. Granger looked completely bored.

"Is this a _date?" _He raised an eyebrow, doing his best to imply that if so it was a sorry excuse for one. The tips of Weasley's ears reddened. "Granger, I didn't know that you liked Quidditch."

"Er, yeah, Quidditch is nice," she said, too quickly. Draco raised his eyebrow further, making it clear to her that he could see through her halfhearted defense of Weasley.

"I see. Somehow I never got the feeling that you were a dedicated fan."

Weasley had clearly caught on by now and was glaring at Draco. "We've just come from London. We were having lunch there."

"How lovely. By the way, Hermione, you never sent me an owl like you said you would."

She flushed pink with indignation. "I never said anything of the sort! Who gave you permission to use my given name, anyway?"

Draco feigned surprise. "Oh. I see." Blaise stood as well, looking from Granger to Draco in confusion.

"Weasley, _Granger,_ you remember Blaise Zabini."

"How do you do." Blaise shook hands with them each in turn, looking impassive and diplomatic. "Are you two a couple now?"

"Obviously," muttered Weasley. This was too easy for Draco.

"What was that?" he asked lightly.

"Nothing."

Granger was cringing in embarrassment. Draco felt a sudden rush of sympathy as he and Blaise sat back down.

"Do sit down," he said, remembering to sound patronizing at the last moment. Granger slid gratefully into the seat beside him. Weasley seated himself on her other side.

The game commenced.

Hermione didn't even try to focus her attention on the pitch. She felt as if her ears were on fire every time Ron reacted to the action in the game. The groans and cheers that seemed endearing when they were alone or part of a large crowd were suddenly acutely embarrassing juxtaposed against the two silent former Slytherins.

She sank lower and lower in her chair until she was slouching dramatically. She didn't even care that Ginny was playing, she didn't care that this was supposed to be a date. Ron would be thoroughly ashamed of himself if he bothered to look over at her once. Or perhaps "look down at her" would be more accurate. Her head was nearly parallel with her stomach.

She looked up, intending to give Ron's profile a reproachful glare, but accidentally met Malfoy's grey gaze instead. To her amazement, he looked deeply sympathetic rather than mocking or supercilious. Before Hermione could decide if it was a trick of the light, he was facing the game again.

With a small mmph, Hermione dragged herself upright in time to see Ginny score another point. Or ten points, or fifty, or however many were awarded, she couldn't recall. Ron was vocally pleased.

She couldn't resist a glance at Le Blond's profile. He wasn't watching the game either. His eyes were unfocused, and he was fiddling with the sleeves of his bottle green robes. He turned his head slightly and smirked when he caught her staring at him. Hermione quickly faced frontwards again.

Something interesting was happening. Two of the other team's Chasers seemed to be closing in on Ginny, who had the Quaffle. Hermione felt the vague primal urge to shout a warning, but it was no good. They rammed into Ginny simultaneously, and she plummeted fifty feet from the air.

"No!" roared Ron. "Foul! FOUL! THAT'S MY SISTER, YOU - !" A fluid stream of obscenities issued from his mouth.

Hermione cringed. "Ron, please," she tried, but he was past reasoning. Why couldn't he realize that no one could hear them from inside the box?!

"Go to her, Ron," she said tiredly. Ron did as she suggested, sprinting from the box. Hermione doubted that he had even heard her.

"She'll be all right," she mumbled for the benefit of Zabini and Malfoy. "She didn't land on her neck, and the Healers can fix anything except death, it seems."

Malfoy shot her a rather appraising look. _What is it, Slytherin boy? Shocked at my deviousness? Well, I don't care about anything today. Everybody just sod off._

Ron returned a quarter hour later, out of breath. "She'll be fine!" he told Hermione. "The Healer just said that she'll need to rest for while."

"Good," said Hermione, feeling pleased that Ginny hadn't died. Really, what was wrong with her today?

"I swear, those -"

More profanities. Hermione glanced at Malfoy, and the same thing was written on their faces. _Yes, Ronald. Yes, you do swear._

Hermione bit her lower lip in amusement. Suddenly, everything seemed like one big, highly entertaining joke. She linked her arm through Ron's. He glanced at her in surprise.

"Yes, dear, I'm sure that they thoroughly deserve everything that you just called them. Now that it is clear that Ginny is going to make a full recovery, let us enjoy the rest of the game. Tell me, who's winning?"

Malfoy actually laughed aloud. Everyone looked at him in surprise. He smirked happily back at them. Hermione grinned. Even Malfoy was included in her sudden good mood.

"The Harpies," said Ron helpfully. Hermione wasn't even in a humor to feel annoyed that he had answered her rhetorical question. As if she actually cared who was winning!

Her upliftedness wilted as Ron stalwartly ignored her for the next half hour. Hermione seriously needed some solitude. She mumbled something about the loo and left the box.

Draco watched Granger leave, her face tight with loneliness. Instinctively, he rose to follow her. Blaise raised a questioning eyebrow, but Draco pretended not to notice.

She was nowhere in sight. Draco grimaced as he eyed the ladies' loo. Why he was following Granger, he wouldn't let himself consider.

He pushed open the door cautiously to find her leaning her back against the sink. She jumped when she saw him.

"Merlin's beard, Draco, why are you here?" she sputtered.

"Please, Granger, don't insult my intelligence. You wanted to escape Weasley. I must say, if I were in your position I would have left an hour ago."

"That'll come back to haunt you when you end up dating Ron."

"Ha-ha. Don't make me retch. Anyway, I have a highly interesting proposal for you."

"How interesting?"

"Now, now, Miss Granger, no innuendo. You see, I noticed, with my Sherlockian powers of observation, that you seem rather bored with life."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Go on."

"I also am filled with discontent. However, I must confess that I find you to be amusing."

"Really."

"Yes, _really_. Now, my proposal. I think that we should spend some time together."

"How so?"

"That has yet to be determined. However, I was quite hurt not to receive your owl. That could be a start." On that note, he left.

The Harpies won.


	3. Of Ambition and Muggle London

"_Patience is power. Patience is not an absence of action; rather it is timing. It waits on the right time to act, for the right principles and in the right way."_

-Fulton J. Sheen_._

_"For a few moments they stood upon a balcony upon which the corridor ended, and tossed the feathery ball of conversation."_

-"Transients in Arcadia", by O. Henry.

Hermione gazed out the window of her flat. It was a drear day in London (_quelle surprise_). A few reluctant drizzles of moisture wafted intermittently from the chilly October sky. She was clutching a mug of blackberry tea in one hand and Jean Webster's _Dear Enemy_ in the other. She had read it countless times; it was one of her favorite Muggle books. The spunky heroine and her amusing epistolary writing style never failed to make Hermione smile, but today Sally and Dr. MacRae just weren't holding her attention.

She was considering the enigma that was Draco Malfoy.

Of course, that was exactly the say he intended himself to be - enigmatic and mysterious. That tendency of his truly irked her, like most things about him. She really shouldn't be wasting brain cells on analyzing him, but then character analysis was one of her favorite pastimes.

Which reminded her, her own character might need some analysis, after yesterday's ill-fated Quidditch game. Hermione had been seriously out of it. She had been too ticked-off at Ron to even care when Ginny fell. That was uncharacteristic and sadistic. Such behavior needed to stop. So, it was time to play the "why" game with herself.

She had been ticked-off at Ron.

_Why?_

_Because he was being an idiot and ignoring me on our date. I don't like Quidditch anyway._

_Why didn't I tell him I would rather go somewhere else?_

_Because I expected him to know better after knowing me for thirteen years, besides officially dating for three._

_Why doesn't he know me better?_

_Because he's a self-absorbed prat sometimes._

_That's unfair._

_Okay, he's really untactful._

_Why does that bother me so much?_

_Because I would prefer to date someone tactful and sensitive. Or I assume that I would, since I've only ever dated Ron and Viktor. Neither of them was exactly the observant type when it came to my feelings._

Okay, so Hermione had deduced that the problem behind her angsty mood swings was that she wanted to be with someone tactful, and Ron was the antithesis of tact.

As for a solution . . . She decided that she didn't want to break up with Ron. Yet. They had been through a lot together (understatement of the year), and she didn't want to lose his friendship. Hermione wasn't sure if their friendship could survive a "make-up-break-up" relationship.

Somehow, Malfoy's strange proposal surfaced in her mind. Spend time with him . . . What had he meant by that?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a tapping on the glass. She jumped in alarm, sloshing cold tea all over her socks. A magnificent dark brown owl was sitting outside. Cursing, Hermione set her book and now-empty mug on the kitchenette counter and pushed up the window.

Hermione untied the scroll from its leg. She set it on the window ledge, then peeled off her tea-soaked socks and tossed them in the washer. When she returned, the owl was still staring at her. It was rather unsettling, actually. Its eyes were like fat yellow coins. Hermione was eager to have it on its way so she could close the window and keep out the dank chill, but this owl was clearly not going anywhere soon. Hermione sighed and unrolled the creamy parchment.

_To whom it may concern:_

_I didn't know how to address this letter. "Dear Granger" sounded a bit off. Anyway, would you like to take me up on my offer? I had the most terrific idea about what we should do. Trust me, you won't regret it._

_Regards,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_Ps. Isolde has no intention of leaving until you write a reply._

Hermione arched an eyebrow at Isolde, who hooted balefully in confirmation. She really was the most beautiful owl Hermione had ever seen, since Hedwig of course. Hermione pulled out her parchment and quill, trying valiantly not to compare Malfoy's epistolary style with Ron's. She smirked as she thought of how to address the letter.

_Dear Enemy,_

_Your epistle intrigued me, which was doubtless your intent. What is this terrific idea of yours?_

_Regards,_

_Hermione Granger_

_Ps. Call me in the Muggle way; it's much faster than Isolde._

She added her landline number at the bottom of the page and tied it to Isolde, who was much more obliging than Pigwidgeon. Hermione shut the window and buried herself back in _Dear Enemy._

About an hour later, Isolde was back and tapping. Hermione looked up from her book in annoyance. Why hadn't Malfoy called her? Seriously. Wizards!

"Well?" she demanded, raising the window for what felt like the eightieth time in a few days. Isolde penitently stuck out her claw. Another note was tied to it.

_Dear Enemy,_

_Your impatience disgusts me. However, thank you for giving me your fellytone number. I plan to use it at unlikely hours of the morning to annoy you._

_Meet me at two o'clock this afternoon near that Muggle monument, Big Ben._

_Regards,_

_Draco Malfoy_

Hermione felt like kicking herself. How could she have been stupid enough to give Malfoy her number?! It was amusing that he called it a "fellytone", though. She would have to save the note for blackmail.

She supposed that she would have to meet him now; Hermione wasn't low enough to stand anyone up, even Le Blond.

Draco was a bit nervous, standing on the Westminster Bridge, waiting for Granger to show. Suppose she stood him up. . .? But, no! He had momentarily forgotten that he was Draco Malfoy. Women did not stand him up, even seemingly asexual women like Granger.

It was comforting to feel arrogant again. He lost his ability to be snarky during the nausea, but somehow, around Granger he felt much less existential. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing had yet to be determined, but anyway it was a relief to feel like himself again.

Draco looked up at the looming clock, but could discern no meaning in its mysterious lines and numerals. He checked his own watch. Neptune was approaching the third tick. She should be here by now. Trying not to look anxious, Draco scanned the crowd of pedestrians moving by. At last, he saw her.

She was wearing dark jeans and a thin raspberry-colored sweater. Her hair was loose today, framing her heart-shaped face. With a jolt of surprise, Draco realized that he had been wrong about her hair. It wasn't frizzy at all; if anything, it was wavy. Had she done something new with it, or had Draco only been seeing what he expected to see?

She hadn't noticed him yet. Draco considered waving, but thought better of it. He leaned nonchalantly against the barrier of the bridge, ignoring the Muggle pedestrians.

Hermione got a bit of a shock when she saw Draco in Muggle clothing. Firstly, it seemed odd to see him wearing anything but wizard robes. Secondly, he didn't look like any Muggle she had ever seen. He was wearing an elegant charcoal-colored suit that Hermione rather suspected was a Savile Row creation. Under it was a white Oxford shirt, open at the collar. His skin looked almost unhealthily pale against the dark suit, in an admittedly attractive way. The platinum-blond hair that had earned him Hermione's private nickname of "Le Blond" was pushed back with a minimal amount of gel; as she had noticed before, it was rather long. Even from a distance of fifty feet, she could tell that his wolfish grey eyes were fixed on her. He was leaning against the bridge barrier. Unbidden, a quote from Hermione's favorite television program, _My So-Called Life_, entered her head: "He leans great."

She approached him rather apprehensively. After all, this man had been a Death Eater at one point.

"Good afternoon, Malfoy," she said carefully.

"Good afternoon, Granger."

"Are we going somewhere formal?"

"What would give you that impression?"

"Your Muggle attire is far from normal." She tried to sound faintly disdainful, as though he had made a great _faux pas_.

"That rhymes, Granger," he noted parenthetically. Hermione blushed slightly. "What you must understand is that sartorial elegance is a great priority for me. Why would I choose to wander around Muggle London dressed like you are when I can instead invoke the envy of strangers?"

Hermione hated to concede it to herself, but he had a point. Random passerby were looking sideways at him, with envy or something else. Quite a few Muggle women seemed particularly interested by his appearance. Hermione pretended to consider him.

"Yes, it would certainly be very odd if you dressed like me. The Muggles wouldn't know quite how to react to a crossdressing wizard, though I suppose this is London, after all."

"Lots of crossdressing wizards," they said in unison. Hermione looked at him in surprise. Malfoy's expression mirrored hers. She giggled rather nervously.

"Ah, but we still attract too much attention," he said.

"I know a coffee place not far from here," said Hermione. It felt so odd to be talking logistics with bleeding _Malfoy_.

"Excellent. Lead the way, Granger."

"_Allons-y_, then." They walked about two blocks to Hermione's favorite coffee shop. It was very near the Muggle tourism hub, but suspiciously it never seemed crowded. Actually, it had a decidedly wizardish flavor, now that she considered it.

They ordered drinks - a chai latte for her and black coffee for him - and sat down at a small table.

"So," she said, in an attempt to diffuse the sudden awkwardness, "what is your terrific idea? Pray tell."

"Ah. Yes." Hermione couldn't help but notice that he was looking at her rather intensely. "You are dissatisfied in more that your relationship with Weasley, I suspect."

"I don't - !"

"Down, Granger. Now is not the time for denial. I have eyes, you know."

Yes, unfeeling grey metal ones.

The drinks arrived, uncannily fast. Hermione looked sharply at the counter in time to see the barista hastily tucking a slender piece of wood back behind the coffee canisters. She smiled to herself. So, the cafe was enchanted after all. Malfoy coughed to recall her attention to himself. Reluctantly, she slid her gaze back to his pale, pointed face.

"I dare to surmise," he continued, "that you are dissatisfied with your work. Not challenging enough? Not enough power passing through your hands?" He stopped her interrupting again. "It's perfectly understandable, my dear. You made this department for the good of Wizardkind, and they chained you to it. It must be torture for such a bright, promising young witch."

"Flattery isn't helping, Malfoy."

"But it's true! I may be prejudiced against you from our school days, but even then I wasn't stupid. I could tell that you were the cleverest witch of our age and it drove me mad with jealousy. Silly of me, really. I should have realized that we could help one another."

Hermione could practically smell manipulation. Or was that cloying aroma merely his aptly named cologne?

"You have all the raw materials of a very influential individual. Brains, talent, motivation, determination . . . And the thing that I've never quite developed myself, _honor_. It doesn't hurt that you're a war heroine with public opinion on your side and some press attention."

"You're starting to sound like Slughorn."

"Slytherin trait, I suppose. We always had a talent for selecting the brightest young Gryffindors of the mix, to hate or to polish."

"Go on." Hermione wasn't going to pretend not to be intrigued.

"The reason that you may be finding it so hard to _get a damn promotion_ is that you haven't been enough in wizarding society." He leaned in slightly, and she unconsciously mimicked him. "I can help you there. Malfoys stay well away from actual positions of power, but Malfoy Manor is the hub of magical society. Can you imagine the sheer power flow that drifts through the entry hall to nibble on _canapés_ over the course of one party?" His eyes began to glitter strangely. Hermione thought inexorably of clear-cut grey diamonds.

"What exactly are you proposing?"

"In three days, my family is hosting our annual Hallows Eve Soirée."

"All Hallows Eve isn't for another few weeks, silly."

"Don't call me silly. Everyone is busy on Halloween. It's a rather important wizarding holiday, in case you didn't know."

"Don't imply that I'm silly and I won't call you so." Hermione smirked at him. Good heavens, Le Blond was wearing off on her. Bleck. "Did you know that 'hallows' means 'saints', so All Hallows Eve means - "

" 'Quite frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.' Anyhow - "

"You read Muggle American novels?!" Hermione grinned at his slip-up. Who was a mighty pureblood now?

"Granger, Granger, Granger. If you were as literate as I, you would know that that particular quote is not from the book, but from the movie."

"I don't believe it. Draco Malfoy both read _Gone With the Wind_ and watched the film. Happy, happy day."

"Can you blame me with being fascinated by the _Götterdämmerung_? I found it very well described."

"You would, you racist - "

"Can we focus, please?" He ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "The Hallows Eve Soirée is rather an anticipated event on the social calendar. The Minister of Magic will be there, as well as many highly influential witches and wizards." He grinned rather wickedly. "I even had the presence of mind to invite the Other Minister."

Hermione gasped. "You don't mean - "

"Yes; the Muggle Prime Minister." Hermione's mouth fell open.

"Er . . . Won't he be a bit out-of-place at a wizard's gathering?"

"Nonsense. That's where my brilliance comes into play. All of the guests have been told to wear Muggle eveningwear. It's going to be a sort of costume party."

"That is brilliant," breathed Hermione. Malfoy looked so smug that she wanted to kick him.

"So: my proposition. You will attend the soirée as my guest and rub elbows with many famous people. Everyone will notice you. You will get moved out of that DEW and start a smashing career in the department of your choice. You will be the Minister of Magic in a decade or so. Happily ever after, et cetera."

"_Brillante_. What's the catch?"

"The catch?" Was it her imagination, or did Malfoy's eyes suddenly take on a sinister gleam? "You must take me on a tour of Muggle London today."

Not five minutes after Draco made his strange request, Granger was dragging him underground. It was all very unsettling. She had said something about a tube, and off they went, both coffee drinks untasted.

"Remind we what we're doing again," he said, trying to maintain his languid tone as they hurtled down a grimy set of steps as what seemed like an unreasonable pace.

"You can't have the Muggle experience without taking the Tube, _mais oui_! It's how most people get around London."

"Unpleasant place, isn't it? Typical Muggles, they have the whole sky to contemplate and they choose to scurry through the sewer like rats." Draco wrinkled his aristocratic nose in disgust.

"You're one to talk. Floo powder is much less comfortable, _je vous assure_."

"Why do you have a habit of lapsing into French?" He tried to keep the curiosity out of his face as Granger inserted money into a large rectangle, muttered to herself about a "green line", pushed some buttons, and received two little pieces of stiff paper. She handed one to Draco.

"Ticket. Don't lose it, don't eat it."

"Sorry?"

She laughed at his mystification. "Never mind, it's just something my dad used to say when he gave me a ticket for anything."

Draco could have spent a few more minutes examining the turnstile, but the cloud of brown hair was on its way again and he had to move fast to keep up.

Draco found the bullet-shaped "tube" vehicle to be less than pleasant. It was too noisy and smelly. Besides which, it was packed with Muggles. Draco found himself pressed against Granger. She smelled tantalizingly of her rose perfume.

"Égoïste, right?" Apparently her thoughts had been similarly inclined.

"Yes, I am. On that thought, why do you keep lapsing into French? You don't have veela aspirations, do you?"

Granger's face flushed slightly pink. "Shut up. I don't even know what you mean. In response to your first question, after I finished my education, my parents took me to France for the summer. It was sort of like our version of the traditional Grand Tour. It was really lovely; we stayed with _mes grands-parents_ for a while in Aix-en-Provence, then I went on to Paris alone." She looked suddenly wistful, gazing off into the distance. A suspicion formed in Draco's mind.

"You met someone there, didn't you?" Who would have thought it? Hermione Granger finding romance in Paris.

"No! Well, not exactly." Her face flushed the same color as her sweater. "We never officially dated. It was just . . . A summer flirtation, one could call it."

"Je comprends, mon cher. Vous pouvez compter sur ma discrétion."

"There's nothing to be discreet about!"

"Sorry, I've just always wanted to say that." He smirked down at her. Really, she was only a little taller than Astoria.

"This is our stop!" She grabbed his wrist suddenly and led him off the "tube".

Draco reclaimed his wrist. "Really, I may be an ignorant wizard, but I am not a dog, thank you."

"Sorry!" The casual, breezy apology took him rather by surprise. Draco would certainly never toss something so grave about like it was a feather.

"What are we doing today, Miss Granger?"

"We are going to spend the entire afternoon at the Tower of London."

To his immense surprise, Draco enjoyed himself rather a lot. The examples of ancient architecture and crude Muggle torture devices were amusing, though he could never claim to be fascinated. The crown jewels were quite sparkly; Draco liked sparkly things. Granger had been there several times before, and was a veritable fountain of information. Draco looked sideways at her, deaf to the trivia she was spouting but engaged by the glow that diffused across her face. How had he ever thought her hair frizzy? It was quite obviously wavy.

At last, Draco declared himself sated with Muggle London and wrenched his companion away from Traitor's Gate.

"Now, what you need is a dress for the soirée."

"I have dresses."

"Trust me on this one, Granger, you're going to want a new dress." He cast a disdainful eye over her sweater.

"Hm. I suppose you have a point."

So, now she trusted him more easily. Excellent. That had been the point of the afternoon.

"I have an idea," she said suddenly.

"Pray tell."

"You didn't really get a sense of modern London, did you? Waiving the Tube."

"Yes, let us waive the Tube."

"So, let's go shopping at Harrod's!"

"Smashing idea."

It was not, he discovered, a smashing idea. Granger was a miserable shopper. After looking at a few dresses, she started whining and dragging her feet. It was like taking a toddler to the supermarket.

"So . . . many . . . sub-departments," she moaned. "I liked that blue dress, can we just go back and buy it?"

"That blue dress suited your complexion miserably."

"Blue doesn't suit anyone's complexion miserably."

"Well, there are colors that suit yours much better!"

"I'm tired."

He marched her diligently from section to section. At last, he found the perfect dress.

"I don't like it," she said automatically.

"You didn't even look at it."

"I looked at the price tag. How rich do you think I am?"

"Silly, I'm buying it for you."

"Wha - ? No!"

"Yes. I didn't drag you around a department store by your hair to watch you complain over a price tag. I must say, retail therapy has the most awful effect on you."

"Fine! Do whatever you want."

As they left, Granger carrying a garment bag with his purchase, she looked at him sharply.

"So, I'm your Eliza Doolittle project now?" she observed caustically.

"Remind me never to take you shopping again, you ingrate. And yes, you are my Eliza Doolittle project."

"No more 'With my help, you will rule the world' ?"

"Would it kill you to thank me?"

"Fine!" She dropped the garment bag and flung her arms around his neck. "Thank you, thank you, Draco Malfoy! You are a singularly wonderful personage!"

Draco's spine stiffened with surprise. He disentangled her from himself. "Er. Well. You're welcome." That had been unexpected.

Blushing slightly, she picked up the dress.

"Same time tomorrow, Granger. We must work on your posture and vocal inflection." Before disapparating, Draco heard her say, "I hope you're joking! 'Just you wait, Henry Higgins!' "

She had no idea. Hermione Granger wasn't the Eliza to his Henry, she was the Pip to his Estella. The ceiling would come crashing down eventually.


	4. Of Courage and Candlelight

"._ . . beautiful white peacocks, that walk in the garden between the myrtles and the tall cypress trees . . . When they cry out the rain comes, and the moon shows herself in the heavens when they spread their tails."_

_-Salomé_, by Oscar Wilde. Translated by Lord Alfred Douglas.

Hermione usually opted to spend her lunch break near the Ministry, but today she Apparated back to her flat. She was greeted by the sight of the recently purchased dress in its garment bag spread on the sofa. It really was beautiful. Hermione couldn't resist the urge to try it on again.

Whenever Hermione tried to look at her own reflection in the bathroom mirror, she was reminded of O. Henry's _The Gift of the Magi_:

"_Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art."_

The dress was ivory-colored muslin, with a full A-line skirt that extended just past her knees. Discreet ruffles ran the length of the skirt, reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy's wedding dress. The bodice was Hermione's favorite part: her bare shoulders emerged from a soft cloud of ivory tulle. With her creamy complexion and light brown hair, the overall effect was the classy nostalgia of a wedding by the beach.

The only fly in the ointment of a flattering dress was the fact that _Draco bleeding Malfoy_ had selected it. Since when had he been such a metrosexual? To further the thought, how had he known exactly what would look good on her, Hermione Granger? Even more disturbingly, it fit like a glove. It was all most unsettling and it was best that she not think about it too hard.

There was also the conundrum of whether or not she should pay him back for the dress. It had been _very_ expensive, but then again Hermione had never asked him to buy it for her. She had been saving some money, so it wasn't a question of cost. Malfoy had insisted that it was a gift, but then again Hermione couldn't suffer the thought of owing him so much as a stick of gum. It was settled, then; she would save her pride and pull out her wallet.

She was rather nervous about that evening's

soirée. She was sure that she could do her part well, but all the same she couldn't quell the biting anxiousness in her abdomen whenever she thought of returning to Malfoy Manor.

It was the night of the Hallows Eve

Soirée. Draco surveyed the front hall of Malfoy Manor rather anxiously. It would be the first time that Granger had been to his home since she had been dragged here by her hair and tortured.

_Draco was paralyzed, not by a jinx, but by fear and pain. Hermione was screaming, screaming. She was at Bellatrix Lestrange's feet, writhing in agony. A twisted glee was spreading over Lestrange's face as she continued to torture her. Draco thought he was going to die. This was true torture, worse than the Cruciatus curse . . . yes, he had experienced the Cruciatus curse, and it was nothing compared to this . . ._

Draco snapped out of it. He never went into _that room_ any more. It had been closed off, the door bolted by magic. No one was permitted there, not even Dotty. It was frozen in the state it had been: the upturned furniture, the smashed chandelier. Draco raised a hand to his face and lightly touched the skin just under his left cheekbone. Embedded in his flesh just under the healed layer of skin was a shard of crystal about an inch long. The rest of the fragments had been magically removed from his face after the chandelier fell, but Draco had requested that the largest piece be left in as a reminder. The Dark Mark had faded; the shard remained. The only visible mark on his visage was a slight whitening of the skin around his unique subdermal memento.

Hermione took a deep breath on the steps of the manor. She had decided to arrive fashionably late, and golden light and laughter were wafting out of the windows. Memories of the war, so long smothered, were reemerging in her mind. How different the manor looked now. How different . . .

A white shape moved suddenly in the darkness. Hermione's pulse spiked, and she clutched a hand to her chest. An albino peacock stepped into the light.

"Oh," said Hermione, taking gulps of the chill evening air and trying to slow her heart rate.

The peacock looked at her shrewdly for a moment, then gingerly unfolded his magnificent white feathers like a fan. Hermione's recently restored breath caught in her throat. It was a half-snowflake glittering in the candlelight, it was a diamond flower against the soft blue twilight. It was ironic, really, that white feathers were a symbol of cowardice. . .

"Thank you," she whispered, "for my courage."

The party had been going on for a quarter hour. The grand foyer was filled with anyone who was anyone in the wizarding world, dressed in eveningwear as a tribute to Muggle culture and speaking in low, well-bred tones. Little glass balls, each containing a single candle, floated over the heads of the guests. An enormous silver-wrought chandelier provided the primary illumination, and the glow of enchanted candlelight diffused across the room. The mahogany parquet floor shone discreetly, reflecting the golden light. A magnificent double staircase curled its way grandly towards the second floor. The walls were covered in misty grey-white satin.

Draco scanned the crowd. There was only one face that mattered tonight, if everything was to go according to plan.

There she was. She walked with the measured, uplifted tread of a bride, moving discreetly yet confidently through the crowd. She was seeking him. The dress fit her perfectly, as he had known it would. She had accessorized with low ivory-colored heels and discreet pearl earrings. Draco moved to meet her halfway.

The ivory dress made her skin appear softer, more of a delicate peach shade. The tulle emphasized the slenderness and fragility of her bare shoulders. Her eyes were luminous in the reflected candlelight. Her hair . . . her hair looked soft and ever-so-slightly wavy, framing her face in a light brown cloud. Draco had the unprecedented urge to run his hands through her hair.

"You look pretty."

"Thank you." She looked him over. "You too."

Draco knew that it was a jab as his stereotypically-feminine vanity, but tonight he didn't care. He knew that he looked good. The bespoke black suit hadn't been cheap, but he had wanted it made in the Muggle way on Savile Row.

Dotty bobbed over, looking like a knee-level floating tray of champagne. Granger gave a soft squeal and crouched.

"Dotty! How are you? Have things been better?"

Dotty beamed at her. "Much better, miss! Master Lucius has not hit Dotty once since the hearing." The elf gave a small yelp when she recognized Draco's knees. "Master Draco! Dotty is sorry, sir!" She bowed, endangering the tray badly.

"Er, don't be sorry," said Draco awkwardly. He wasn't used to addressing her. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"Champagne, Master Draco? Miss Granger?" Granger rose to her feet and accepted the stemmed glass. Draco took one as well.

"I spiked it with firewhiskey," whispered Draco as Dotty bobbed away. Granger shrieked, sloshing a little over the edge of the glass.

"You didn't!"

"Only a drop or two. Don't worry, no one ever gets properly wasted at these events."

"Fair enough."

As though on cue, Astoria drifted over. She was very fetching in a fitted midnight blue cocktail dress, slit to the knee. Her hair was piled on top of her head and held in place with starlike diamond-tipped pins.

"May I introduce my girlfriend, Astoria Greengrass? Astoria, this is Hermione Granger."

"Charmed," said Astoria, briefly taking her hand. The look on Granger's face clearly said, _Is this how fancy people shake hands?_ To Draco's relief, she carried it gracefully enough.

"It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Astoria."

"At last?"

"Well, I've heard of you from Malfoy."

An elegantly shaped eyebrow went up. "Nothing too scandalous, I hope."

Granger laughed lightly, a high tinkling sound. Draco was taken aback by this display of traditional femininity. First high heels and a full skirt, now Hermione Granger had actually giggled. It was all a bit disarming.

"No, no. All good things, _je vous assure_."

Astoria looked amused. "Incidentally, I have heard of you too."

"Oh, no! I am certain that Malfoy drags my name through the mud in the most slanderous way possible."

Astoria smiled. "Far from it. I've heard that you are an exceptionally bright witch who is - how did you phrase it, dear? - 'chained to some low-level office job'."

"Oh!" Granger shot Draco a rather reproachful glance. He smirked and shrugged exaggeratedly at her.

"I call it as I see it, Granger."

"Oh, come, this is silly. You two cannot keep calling one another by your surnames! This isn't Hogwarts. We are guests here, _non_? _You_ call _him _Draco and _you _call _her_ Hermione."

"Hermione," said Draco, experimenting. He liked it. "If I may, there are a few other guests that I should like to introduce you to."

"Oh, do. The Other Minister is looking quite forsaken," added Astoria, nodding to where he was standing. Hermione's gaze followed her gesture, and Draco took the opportunity of hissing in Astoria's ear.

"In the name of Merlin, keep her away from the Potters."

Astoria nodded almost imperceptibly. Really, she was wonderful.

Draco took Hermione's wrist and they walked to where the Other Minister was standing, clutching a glass of champagne and looking, as Astoria had said, forsaken.

The first half of the evening went like clockwork. Draco introduced Hermione to all the right people. She was charming and witty and practically exuded the discreet _je ne sais quoi_ so prized by the inner circle of wizarding influence.

By the time Dotty had made her third round of the room with _hors d'oeuvres, _everyone was starting to get bored. Draco directed his wand at a quartet of instruments arranged inconspicuously in the corner, and they began to play themselves: a violin, a harp, a flute, and a viola. The witches and wizards clapped politely, and Draco bowed. There would be no dancing tonight, as it was a soirée and not a ball, but it was necessary to set the mood. Dotty had abandoned her _hors d'oeuvres _tray and was busily unfastening the doors to the balcony. Every began streaming out.

Appreciative sighs rippled through the crowd. Another army of candles in glass balls had been released over the balcony. Draco had magically warmed the air a few degrees to make the evening air more comfortable. The balcony was enormous. Everyone would be able to fit, easily.

Draco was pleased. Hermione had been the center of attention so far. He only had to hope that she didn't run into . . . Potter.

"Harry!" Hermione was so surprised that she almost dropped her empty glass. She hurried over to him, where he was standing with his wife. "Ginny!"

"Hermione! What are you doing here?" asked Harry, equally surprised and pleased.

She hugged both of them in turn. Harry had rented a Muggle tuxedo and Ginny looked lovely in a knee-length plum satin dress. "Draco invited me."

"_Draco?" _Ginny's eyebrows shot up. "So, you're on first-name terms now?"

"Er - yes, I suppose so." Worlds were colliding. "Is Ron here?"

"No." Harry was looking at her rather strangely. "Now that I think about it, it's strange. We're both here, coincidentally it would seem, and Ron isn't."

Hermione knew what he meant. After the war, when everyone was throwing celebrations like mad, she, Harry, and Ron had been in much demand. A "triple act", so to speak. It _was_ a bit odd that two of the trio should be invited to an important event and not even be aware of each other for most of the evening.

"Ginny, your dress is gorgeous," she said, changing the subject with great tact. There would be time to puzzle everything out when she wasn't wearing a dress bought by Malfoy.

"Thanks!" Ginny spun playfully, her red hair fanning out behind her. "You look really pretty tonight. Where did you get that dress?"

"Harrod's," she said evasively. Malfoy chose that moment to join them.

"Mr. Potter, Miss Weasley," he greeted them stiffly.

"Mrs. Potter now," corrected Ginny, displaying the cushion-cut diamond glinting on her left hand.

"Congratulations. When did you get married?"

"July of last year." The Potters smiled at one another. They had certainly been in an unnecessary hurry to get married, in Hermione's opinion, but they seemed to have been created for one another. Hermione could never help comparing their relationship to hers and Ron's. Yes, they had started dating around the same time, and yes, the war had sort of thrown them together, but where Harry and Ginny complemented one another, Hermione and Ron clashed.

"Are you planning on starting a family?" It was a usual pleasantry, but somehow it seemed odd coming from Malfoy.

"Yes, but not yet. I'm still playing for the Harpies."

"The Holyhead Harpies? Ah, yes, I saw you at the match the other day. Are you all right? You fell rather badly."

Ginny waved a hand airily, as though her injury had been a pesky moth. "Perfectly all right, thanks. The Healers can fix anything. I've certainly had worse!" Hermione's lingering guilt over her insensitivity that day was alleviated somewhat.

"Thank you for inviting us tonight," said Harry politely. Hermione got the sense that he was still more than a bit confused about where his relationship with Malfoy stood after the war. He wasn't the only one.

"It is my pleasure." Hermione could practically _see_ him biting his tongue to keep from saying something caustic about it not being a party without the "Chosen One". Malfoy abruptly took her wrist. "Hermione, I really must ask you to come with me. The Other Minister has been clamoring for you. Really, it was a stroke of genius on my part, introducing him to the most capable Muggle-born in the room. I suspect that he's quite smitten with you."

Harry looked as though he was trying to find the veiled insult in Malfoy's "Muggle-born" comment. Apparently finding none, he bid Hermione a reluctant goodbye.

Ginny watched Malfoy and Hermione walk away, her lively brown eyes narrowed.

"It's funny," she said quietly to Harry. "They make a really striking couple, don't you think?"

Harry looked at her in surprise, then followed her gaze. Malfoy was tall and comprised almost entirely of angles. Next to him, Hermione looked disarmingly fragile and doll-like in her off-white dress. Yet her gait didn't convey fragility; she was the embodiment of determination. Together, they practically radiated power.

"Yes," said Harry slowly. "I see what you mean, actually. They look . . ."

"Dangerous."

Harry laughed quietly. "Yes, exactly. I wouldn't like to cross their path."

Ginny was still wearing her analytical pout. "I rather wonder whether it is the Other Minister who is smitten with Hermione after all. . . ? We may never get her and Ron to the altar, at this rate."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, _Draco_ just can't seem to take his eyes off her, can he?"

The evening had been a smashing success. Everyone had admired Hermione, who Draco had begun to think of as his pet project as well as his pet peeve. Every time he overhead someone compliment her attire or her obvious intellect, he felt like it was a personal tribute to him. Had he not discovered her? He would make this uncut diamond a tribute to the highest wizarding society. Tonight had only been her debut. There would be other parties, other meetings. . .

Here, Draco's imagination hit a snag. Who would be escorting her? He certainly couldn't have the Weasel hanging on her coattails, muddying everything with his uncouth language. It occurred to Draco that _he himself_ might be the envied wizard on her arm. Yes, envied . . . aside from her tact and wit, Hermione was undeniably pretty. Not only would she be the living embodiment of what Draco had privately dubbed the Muggleborn Integration of Superior Society (MISS), but she would be the most desirable bachelorette of their day. Besides, what a statement it would make if they were seen together! The pureblood elitist's son with the famed Muggle-born war heroine. Contrary to whatever Lucius had trained Draco to parrot, his family had never been above an advantageous alliance of dubious blood purity. Before the International Statute of Secrecy, the Malfoys had been eminent in the Muggle world. Certain unions had prevented the phenomena of inbreeding that was evident in so many "pureblood" families.

Patience was the key. Before Draco could act on the plan, Hermione had to be advantageously situated at the Ministry and feeling indebted. After they had made certain business arrangements between them . . . who knew?


	5. Of Motives Revealed and Flowers Returned

_"I choose my enemies for their good intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of me? I think it is rather vain."_

_-The Picture of Dorian Gray_, by Oscar Wilde.

"The Ministry is getting nosier and nosier. If the investigations aren't called off soon, we could lose - "

"Everything, I know." Draco stood impassively as Lucius began to pace back and forth across his study floor. "The plan is going perfectly. I only need more time."

"So you've said." Lucius was growing frantic. "Why can't I make you see? Time is the one thing that we _do not have_! What is this mysterious plan of yours, anyway?"

"I can't . . ."

Lucius looked shrewdly at his son. Draco tried to disengage eye contact, but it was too late. "I told you not to do that," Draco muttered. He _hated_ it above all things when his father practiced Legilimency on him.

"The Granger girl? What use can she be to us?" scoffed Lucius. A spark of something white-hot and angry flared in the space just above Draco's sternum.

"Don't underestimate her because of her blood status. In case you hadn't noticed, that line of thought has landed you in Azkaban on more than one occasion." Draco was never above gloating about his prison-free past. "Just trust me. Due to my efforts, she got a promotion. Muggle Diplomacy Department." In his haste to justify his inclusion of Hermione in the plan, Draco said more than he meant to say. "She is now indebted to me. With more time, she can get further promoted. I hint to her that I pulled some strings, she feels grateful, she is in my power."

"That will never work."

"The thing that you fail to understand about noble people, Father, is that they are governed to an absurd degree by gratitude. Haven't you ever read Wilde's _An Ideal Husband_?"

"That's a fair point." The older man stopped pacing. "It might have worked, if we had years in which to act delicately. I already have a web of connections at the Ministry; why can't you use them?"

Draco wanted to scream in frustration at his father's narrow-minded stubbornness. "Your old contacts are worthless. They cut you dead after the Second War."

"Why Granger, though? She hates you."

Draco pressed his forefingers to his temples to stop the pounding. "Granger is a war heroine, thus she has public opinion on her side. She is extremely intelligent, contrary to whatever you may say. Do you think it was random happenstance that I selected her, of all my former school acquaintances? Granger's Achilles heel is that she is entirely too loyal. Look at the way she follows that Weasley character around like a drunken puppy. Sickening." Draco shut his mouth like a trap before anything else came out. He was voicing things that he had never intended to say to anyone. He closed his eyes before Lucius could try Legilimency again.

"Are you hiding something, Draco?" Lucius's voice was drawling and cold. They had made a 180-degree turn.

"No." Draco was defensive, cornered. "Is it too much to ask that I keep my thoughts _to myself_?"

"Go on, then. Put your oh-so-brilliant plan into action."

"It's not ready -"

"Still hiding things? Tut, tut. Unless your feelings toward Granger have changed? Is that it?"

It was a shot in the dark, but the arrow flew true. Draco felt his emotions spike. It was a far cry from the unfeeling existentialism of a few weeks previous. Who - had - the _right_ - to make him feel like this?! Not Hermione. Not anyone. Draco was confused to the point of desperation by this new spectrum of emotions that had blossomed since she had come back into his life.

"I'll do it." He said it low, tersely mumbling his death sentence.

"What?"

"I'll do it. I will get Granger to stop the investigations into our financial practices in the Muggle world."

Lucius smiled coldly. His son could always be prevailed upon when it came to personal pride. God forbid that he would feel anything.

Hermione sang happily to herself, a deeply off-key version of _My Heart Will Go On_. She had decided on a whim to actually cook instead of getting Indian takeaway, and a dog-eared vegetarian cookbook was propped open on the counter. With a wave of her wand, the vegetable knife began obligingly cutting cucumbers. Magic-aided cooking was ridiculously easy.

Hermione was forced to revise her opinion when she got distracted by a mysterious ticking noise coming from one of the pipes and returned to find the previously-yellow bell peppers blackening regretfully in the frying pan.

"Oops," she said cheerfully, opening the window to allow the smoke to billow out. Nothing could damage her buoyant mood. She had been promoted to the Muggle Diplomacy Department! True, her NEWT qualifications weren't much help, but it was just a stepping stone. Somehow, Hermione's mind kept drifting back to her conversation with Draco over coffee. "_You have all the raw materials of a very influential individual. Brains, talent, motivation, determination . . ." _She would never forget the way that his eyes had glittered. . . like frozen grey diamonds.

He had sent flowers. A vase of white carnations stood innocently on the counter, serving for the moment as a place to lean the cookbook. No one had sent Hermione flowers before. Had Draco changed since his Death Eater days? The caustic Draco-ness was still there, but everything he had done for her since he had come back into her life had been either helpful or kind. She was still dating Ron, but . . . who knew? With a really good-looking guy sending her flowers and taking her to parties, who knew?

There was a tapping on the window. Hermione was pleased to see Malfoy's owl Isolde perched sedately on the windowsill.

_Hermione,_

_I need to talk to you. Can you meet me at the Leaky Cauldron in half an hour?_

_-Draco Malfoy_

What could be so important? Hermione was intrigued enough to abandon the cuccumbers.

Half an hour later, she Apparated to the pub to find Draco standing rather anxiously near the door. They found a table far away from the door.

"Hermione . . ." She rather liked it when he used her given name. "I have a problem."

"What is it?"

"You know that my father isn't. . . the most ethically concerned of all wizards."

"Yes, I understand something to that effect."

"See, a few years back he dabbled in some Muggle investments."

"_What_?"

"Nothing too deep! Just a bit on the stock market, you know. It was more of an experiment than anything."

"That's illegal. Everyine knows that wizards have a distict advantage when it comes to Muggle affairs. Article 45 of - "

"I know, I know! The thing is," he wetted his lips, "the Ministry has been preparing to launch an inquiry."

"I should very well think so!"

"You don't understand! We would lose everything. You what they're like - give an inch and they're searching your whole house. The whole thing has the potential to be blown very much out of proportion."

"Blown out of - ! Wait, what are you asking me to do?"

"Sorry?"

"What. Do. You. Want." Hermione was catching on fast. Stupid, stupid! She had been so stupid. Did she even want to hear his reply?

"N- nothing!" He licked his lips again. "I can't ask you for anything."

"I see." Hermione leaned forward, taking his pale angular face in one hand. He flinched, not meeting her gaze. "This has been the _plan_ all along, no?" He didn't respond. He didn't need to. Hermione laughed, more than a little dementedly.

Hannah Abbott, who had come up to offer them the drink menu, slipped away unobserved.

"Stupid me! Do you know, I almost trusted you. Of course! First you discontented me with my life, then gave me that grand speech about ambition. Very tempting! Then the dress and the party and the glittering lights and sending me flowers. . . charming, simply charming. Then, after I had climbed the corporate ladder a bit, _all_ due to you, of course, you would pull the rug out from under me. Oh, I would be a valuable tool, wouldn't I? You were right about one thing, _Draco_. I do have the 'raw materials' for success. Thank you for boosting my self confidence!" Her voice was getting progressively higher, inching up the scale. "You were wrong about everything else, though. I would never succumb to blackmail." Her face was dangerously close to his. He looked _terrified_. "I would never succumb to _you_."

With that, she released him and left.

Draco expected to feel _something_ after Granger left. He didn't know what - just something. But there was nothing. She had plunged her dagger into the chest of a frozen corpse and expected it to bleed. Up until the moment when she left, he had been nothing but a whirl of emotion - fear and shock and something else. After she delivered her parting blow, however, and stormed off like an operatic heroine, he felt nothing.

Draco tilted his head back and began to laugh the same wild, unhinged laugh that Granger had demonstrated a moment before. The nausea was back.

Hermione pressed her face into her pillow and screamed. It was remarkably satisfying, though the sound was muffled, and she sat up a moment later.

So, Malfoy had proven himself yet again to be an utter bastard. Objectively viewed, it wasn't all that surprising. He had never _been_ anything else and he would never _be_ anything else.

"_Mais il était si charmant ce moment," _she mumbled to herself. Oh, well. What was the old adage? Something about honey. "You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar." Apparently that was the moral of the story.

_Now what?_

Well, she would pay for the dress, obviously.

_Wait. Knowing Malfoy, it would be much more insulting to send the dress to him instead of just paying. I'll send him the flowers too._

Hermione went busily around her flat, collecting the flowers and the dress. She would put them in a box and owl them to Malfoy Manor to next day. It was a bit like picking up the pieces after a break-up, but much more satisying and much less emotionally charged. Yes, she might have had a little crush, but it wasn't as if it was possible to get seriously attatched to Le Blond.

Now that the trinkets had been gathered, it was time to remove his influence.

If Hermione was honest with herself, her promotion _had_ indeed been due to Malfoy's influence. The Other Minister had been so impressed with her at the party that he had reccomended her to the Minsitry of Magic. She had to resign from that particular department immediately. Of course, she _could_ tip them off about Malfoy's attempted blackmail, but . . . somehow she just wanted to wash her hands of him and move on with life.

As for her future career . . . Hermione had never been enthusiastic about the Muggle Diplomacy Department anyway. She would much rather work in magical law - not as an Auror, like Harry, but as a lawyer. Did wizards even have lawyers? It was worth looking into, anyway. Oddly enough, it had been Rufus Scrimgeour, the former Minister of Magic, that had first recommended magical law as a career for her. She hadn't been entirely gracious in her reply, but the more she considered it, the more appealing it seemed.

So. That was Draco Malfoy, out of the equation for good. It had been an interesting ride to say the least.

Draco opened the box. He already knew what was in it: the dress and the flowers. No note was necessary.

"What am I supposed to do with _this_?" he asked of Astoria, holding out the dress like it was a distasteful piece of garbage.

"I don't know." They were sitting side-by-side on a sofa in Malfoy Manor. An untouched tea tray was on the low table in front of them.

Astoria sighed. "I'm breaking up with you," she said abruptly.

"That's understandable," agreed Draco absently. "I regret it, but I can't say that I blame you. I would break up with myself if I could."

She didn't move. "Would you like to know why?"

"Because I'm an unfeeling Nihilist who doesn't treat you like you deserve to be treated?"

"Correct, but there's more to it."

"Er. Let's see. I am now a criminal accomplice because I encouraged my father to hack into the Muggle stock market records and remove any fingerprints that he may have left so as not to get sued by the Ministry for all we have?"

"That may be a contributing factor."

"I can't think of anything else. Am I very ugly?"

"Far from it, dear. But you should know . . . you were dating me for all the wrong reasons."

"I hope you don't believe that."

"You don't understand." She took a steadying breath. "Why did you date me?"

"Because you're sophisticated and beautiful and mature."

"Thank you. But you never loved me."

"No. You're not saying that you love me?"

"No, I don't. I never did. What's more, I don't think I ever will."

"That's fair, but it doesn't connect at all to what you were saying earlier."

"Yes, it does. You dated me because I would be the perfect Mrs. Malfoy. Actually, I am quite similar to your mother. Not in a perverted way."

"Not at all, you're right."

"Don't you see? If you hadn't become existentialist and unemotional, we might have ended up married."

"I fail to see your point."

"You can't marry someone based on suitability! At least, I can't."

"You astonish me. What would you marry someone based on, then?"

"Love," she said simply. "You cannot decide who to love. I've never been in love, but I think it's based on some higher level. Love is something that we can't understand, we can only enjoy it. It's irrational and erratic."

"I'm confused."

"You're not the only one." She stood, sighing again.

"If I fall in love," said Draco unhelpfully, "you'll be the first to know."

"Thank you. You too. Good luck, Draco." She exited, casting one final glance over her shoulder.

Draco couldn't help but feel that he had missed the point entirely.

"He was using you the whole time?!"

"Yes, that's what I just explained."

"Wow." Hermione had turned to Ginny for advice/consolation, and they were sitting cross-legged on the Potter kitchen floor. Ginny claimed that she did her best thinking there. "That's really too bad."

"Why? It's good, really. I learned not to trust known bastards." Hermione smiled wryly. "I probably should have figured that out sooner, but sometimes Life just needs to hit us over the head before we fully understand something."

"I mean, your chemistry was so great." Ginny sighed regretfully.

"Sorry?"

She looked at her allegedly-smart friend in surrpise. "You mean you seriously didn't notice? There were practically sparks between you."

"Are we talking about the same person? I said _Draco Malfoy_."

Ginny looked completely exasperated. "You had to notice! He lit up like a Christmas tree around you!"

Hermione laughed, bemused and amused. "If you say so. I tend to doubt that."

"Honestly, 'Mione, for someone who's so sensitive to other people's relationships, you can be remarkably clueless when it comes to yourself."

Unbidden, a memory of Malfoy leaning against the Westminster Bridge filled Hermione's mind. His posture had suggested relaxation, yet at the same time he practically radiated tension. _A waiting wolf_.

Hermione shrugged it off. "Whatever 'chemistry' we may or may not have had, he still tried to use me."

"True, true." Ginny gazed into space, hugging her knees to her chest. "I KNOW!"

"Ach! What is it?" demmanded Hermione, startled.

"Vengeance!"

"Yes, that's a fun-to-say word. What does it have to do with anything?"

"You have to avenge your wounded heart!"

"My heart is perfectly intact, _merci_."

"Your wounded pride, then." Ginny clapped her hands together in excitement. "Public humiliation is the most obvious solution. Are there any upcoming opportunities to publicly humiliate Malfoy?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Never mind, never mind! Something will present itself," she said confidently. Hermione smiled. Ginny's venegeful spirit was infectious.

"How would I do it, anyway?"

"You're smart. Outwit him or something. Make him look stupid. Oh, and look gorgeous while doing it."

"Easier said than done," laughed Hermione.

"Laugh now, but it's a terrific idea. Trust me," she asserted.

"Okay, I'll keep it mind."

"Good. Now," continued Ginny, leaning in slightly, "about Ron."

"What about Ron?"

"You haven't been on a date with him in ages."

"I've been a bit busy."

"Yes, with _Maaalfoy,"_ crooned Ginny smugly.

"Shut up! You know very well it wasn't like that. Besides, he has a girlfriend."

"So defensive. I think you're blushing." She neatly dodged Hermione's attempted swat. "The point is, you don't seem terribly interested in him anymore."

"I told you, I was - "

"Busy, I know. But he didn't exactly send you flowers when you got promoted."

"Firstly, I'm going to decline the promotion for afroementioned reasons. Secondly, Malfoy's behavior is _not_ to be used as any sort of juxtaposition, since it was all a lie anyway."

"That's true. Let me just ask you: When is the last time that Ron made you feel happy and/or loved?"

"Er . . ."

"My point exactly."

"Do you _want_ me to break up with him?"

"Look, Mione, as surprising as it may seem, I know Ron a bit better than you do. He's a good person, and he can even be quite pleasant when he tries, but he's not the one for you."

"I think - "

"There's a simple way to determine who's right. Just go on a date with him. If he makes you feel like the luckiest girl alive, then by all means gloat and keep dating him. If not. . . it may be time for you both to move on."

"It doesn't seem fair to base everything on one date."

"Hermione. Look at me."

Hermione hadn't realized that she'd been avoiding Ginny's eyes. Reluctantly, she looked into her earnest brown gaze.

"If he doesn't make you feel beautiful just the way you are," she said slowly, "then he doesn't deserve you."

Hermione swallowed. "Does Harry make you feel beautiful?"

"Most days." She grinned. "Sometimes he just makes me feel annoyed. That's marriage. Anyone who thinks they're going to live happily ever after once they reach the altar is fooling themselves."

"You would know, Mrs. Potter."

"But, seriously. If Ron doesn't make you feel really special, then just drop him."


	6. Of Cognitive Dissonance and Dates

_"Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason . It was because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about her. He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unorthodoxy."_

-_1984_, by George Orwell.

Ron picked Hermione up at her flat. When she opened the door, he gave her an appreciative once-over. She was wearing a cobalt-blue knee-length chiffon dress with a halter neckline. The jewel tone was very flattering to her complexion. She had swept her hair into a chignon, leaving a few wispy curls to define her cheekbones. Under the dress, she wore opaque black tights for warmth. Her makeup was minimal: a bit of mascara, brown eyeliner, and some pearl-pink lip gloss. One of Hermione's many peculiarities was that unlike most witches, she preferred Muggle clothing to robes when not at work. She liked the way that Muggle clothes looked and felt, besides the originality that it gave her among witches. Most magical people seemed to think that she was sending a blatant pro-Muggle message. Who knew that she could ever be subversive by just wearing "normal" clothes?

"You look really nice."

"Thanks." She wasn't the only one. Ron was very dashing in black dress robes. "Did you make the reservation?"

"Yeah." He offered Hermione his arm with a slightly awkward air. "I also got a Muggle taxi. No Apparition tonight."

Apparently Ron had sensed the gravity of the occasion. Admittedly, Hermione wasn't the queen of subtlety. Subtlety required a much more _Slytherin_ attitude than simple tact. She smiled to put him at ease, and they departed on their date.

Blue Dragon was an upscale London restaurant that had sprung up in the postwar boom. It was enchanted, like the Leaky Cauldron, to be undetectable to Muggles. The taxi driver looked curiously at his well-dressed passengers when they alighted in a deserted street lined on either side with closed retail shops. Unseen by the taxi driver, the tasteful blue-and-black facade of Blue Dragon stood between a clothing store and an electronics depot.

The Japanese restaurant attracted a mixed clientele - though not nearly so varied as the Hog's Head. It was the first restaurant of its kind in Britain, and many foreign witches and wizards - especially those from the continent - made it a point to visit whilst they were in London. English wasn't the only language being murmured in discreet tones over the small black tables; Hermione felt a thrill of satisfaction when she recognized that a trio of older witches was speaking French.

The interior was lit with a blue glow eminating from the bluebell flames in little bell jars that ornamented each table. The effect was rather eerie. Ron grinned at Hermione, clearly remembering the blue fires that she was especially adept at illegally conjuring during their Hogwarts days. That was something Hermione loved about him - they had so many shared experiences. But . . . was that a _romantic_ characteristic? Or something that she would value in a best friend? Had their relationship really evolved?

"I heard that Cho Chang and her Muggle husband opened this place," she remarked after they had been seated. Ron's hair looked queerly purple in the blue half-light.

"Yeah. That's the rumor, anyway. I heard that her husband - I forget his name - is some sort of famous Japanese chef who moved to London." He looked absently over his shoulder, taking in the decor. "This is nice."

"Yes, it must be be very lucrative, considering that it's the only black-tie wizard restaurant in Great Britain."

" 'Black tie?' " Ron looked curiously at Hermione. She smiled.

"It's a Muggle expression, Ronald. So, how are things at work?"

"Really great, thanks. George had a brilliant idea for ths new candy that makes your eyebrows. . ."

Against her will, Hermione's mind started to drift. Ron had joined his brother in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, which seemed on-track to becoming the family business. Hermione was ever-supportive, but really, how interesting could the new product line be? With a Herculean effort, she tuned back in to what he was saying.

". . . sometimes half-yellow, half-blue. I got the idea from that day in Transfiguration, remember? When Harry spent the whole day walking around with a yellow eyebrow without realizing it?"

She giggled reluctantly. "I remember."

"How is your job going? Oh, right - Ginny told me that you got a promotion! Congratulations." Unexpectedly, he kissed her. Hermione blushed reflexively.

"Thanks, but I turned it down. I'm not really interested in Muggle diplomacy, with all due respect to those who make it their career."

"I get it. It's not nearly as important as SPEW, Ministry division, right?"

The comment was jestingly spoken, but Hermione felt a quick pang of resentment.

"Thank you, Roonil Wazlib," she said tartly, refering to the time that a defective spell-checking quill had once spelled his name in their sixth year. Ron laughed.

"I forgot about that! Good times, good times."

_What are we going to talk about when we're old and can't remember every little detail of our school days?_ wondered Hermione to herself.

Draco looked up from the menu to see _her_. A jolt of electricity sped through him. _This _was the rush that he had missed in the time since she had discovered the plan.

Weasley was across from her, laughing at some comment that she had made. Bitter, acrid envy, sharp as it had been at Hogwarts, spiked through him. Granger looked torn between amusement and irritation.

Astoria coughed lightly to recall his attention to herself. They weren't on a date; actually, Draco was starting to suspect that it was a financial matter that she had brought him to discuss.

"Skip the presentation, Torie," he said boredly. "Just tell me what you want an investment for and I'll see what I can do."

"I want to open a Muggle fashion house," she said quickly. Draco's eyebrows went up.

"No, listen," she continued determinedly. "I've wanted to do this for a very long time. I already applied to the Ministry for a permit to do business in the Muggle world. This could seriously be lucrative."

"Your family is loaded," said Draco. "Why - "

"Oh, come off it! How do you think they reacted? Not well, I can assure you." She pulled a sketchbook out of her purse. "Look at these. Aren't they excellent?"

They were. The sketches were of womens' dresses, elegant and gorgeous. "I'm intrigued. How much do you want?"

She gave a price. Draco whistled softly. "I'll see what I can do, but my father absolutely chained the vault shut since the near-incident with the Ministry. I can barely get a Sickle off him."

Astoria smiled radiantly. For once, she actually looked her age instead of ten years older. "Thank you!" She seemed about to kiss Draco, but thought better of it. "You're staring at Hermione Granger," she said shrewdly, following his gaze.

"True." The perpetual twilight of the interior made her dress glow like a blue jewel.

"Who's the redhead?"

"What?"

"The redhead with her."

"Oh. That's Ronald Weasley. Ugly fellow, isn't he?"

She gave the Weasel a once-over. "Not really. I take it you know him from Hogwarts?"

"Oh yes."

They sat in silence. Astoria began playing with the edge of the tablecloth.

"This is pathetic, Draco. Go talk to her."

"Why? The view is so much better from my present position."

"Don't be such a Mr. Darcy."

"What?"

"Never mind." Draco might read the occasional Muggle novel, but Astoria was secretly addicted to the classics.

"I can't interrupt, she's on a date."

"You choose odd moments to turn Gryffindorian. Turn away, they're looking at us."

Draco met Hermione's wide brown eyes for a moment, being sure to raise a supercilious eyeborw as though _she_ had been the one gaping like a hyptonized Basilisk.

Unfortunately, Draco was not a Basilisk, not even a hypnotized one, and neither Granger nor her weaseline escort was even the slightest bit Petrified. Draco noted with satisfaction that Weasley looked properly perturbed, however.

"_What is _he _doing here?_" hissed Ron, old enmity making him tactfully quiet for once.

"_I don't know,_" Hermione whispered back. "_He seems to be on a date with his girlfriend._"

Ron cast a few furtive, suspicious glances at the pair. "_The slimy git is staring at you,_" he added indignantly.

"_How mystifying._" Hermione couldn't help stealing another glance. His admittedly breathtaking profile was positively ethereal in the magical blue light.

He was indeed staring at her. It was subtle, but humans can tell when eye contact is being made even when the eye's pupil is not precisely discernible. The fact that Malfoy's pupils were surrounded by molten silver only made the whole experience more unsettling. Hermione turned back to her _somen_ noodles, a pink flush creeping over her face.

Ron looked irked. "I'm going to go ask him why he's staring at you," he muttered.

"No," said Hermione quickly, stopping him. Ron opened his mouth to protest. "I'll go," she appeased quickly. "I can handle him, if you recall."

Ron smirked."Yeah, okay." Hermione half-expected him to pull out some opera glasses to better enjoy what was clearly going to be a gladiator fight worthy of even their golden days at Hogwarts. She barely refrained from rolling her eyes. _Honestly_.

She approached Malfoy and Astoria with some trepidation. He turned to face her with that infuriating aristocratic nonchalance.

"Ah, Granger."

"Malfoy."

"You remember Astoria." She was prettier than Hermione remembered her. Much too pretty, and too young.

"Er . . . were you by any chance staring at me?"

"_I_? Stare at _you_?" The delicate yet sharp emphasis was placed for maximum insult gradient. Hermione flushed a deeper shade of pink.

"Yes," she asserted stubbornly. Astoria, apparently sensing the storm clouds, murmured something about the ladies' loo and slipped discreetly away.

"Pray tell, why would I _stare_ at you?" He looked her ostentatiously up and down.

_Really!_ "I was hoping you could tell me," she said coolly.

Draco was about to retort with a splendid and witty innuendo when they were interrupted by a strangled sort of gasp from the Weasel. Granger spun around to see the redhead in apparent discomfort, to understate it.

"Bloody hell," he said uncouthly. Granger was at his side in a moment, causing Draco to roll his eyes in annoyance - and yes, maybe a flicker of the old jealousy too.

"Ron! Are you okay?" The Weasel was displaying all the signs of having recently consumed something very, very spicy. A caustic grin tugged at the corner of Draco's mouth.

"Wasabi," he managed, his eyes watering. Draco simply couldn't supress a sadistic cackle, quickly disguising it as a cough. Weasley had accidentally consumed vast quantities of wasabi on his date with Granger. Oh, life was good to Draco.

Granger's lovely wavy hair started to frizz slightly with agitation. Apparently its native texture was unleashed when stressed. Draco would have to keep that in mind. For future reference.

"Sorry, 'Mione - I'll meet you at your flat, okay?" Weasley managed, Disapparating.

"I'll pay the bill, then," muttered Granger. To someone who didn't know her, she might have looked irritatable, but Draco knew that she was actually just flustered and confused.

"Nonsense, Granger," he said briskly.

"Sorry?"

"I'm paying. If I hadn't distratced you, you would have been able to monitor your date and keep him from putting undesirable substances in his mouth."

Her eyebrows shot up. "You admit you were staring at me?"

"What can I say? You look fabulous."

"Er - thank you," said Hermione, visibly unsettled. Draco smirked, feeling vastly self-satisfied.

He insisted on paying the bill. "You really shouldn't have," Hermione said, looking almost pleading.

"It's the Ben Franklin effect, Granger. I already did you a few favors, thus psychologically I am prone to want to help you more."

"That's very considerate, Malfoy," she said, disarming him with a sweet, hesitant smile.

"Considerate?" His voice tilted embarrassingly. "I think not. It's just that . . . You create a sort of cognitive dissonance in me that I find extremely refeshing. It gets boring, being worshipped all the time."

"I'm sure," she said, laughing lightly.

Draco couldn't help smiling. He felt like he had accidentally taken a draught of Elixir to Induce Euphoria. Talking with Hermione, laughing with Hermione. . . who, incidentally, was "Hermione" again instead of "Granger" in his mind.

"Er . . . I suppose I ought to go," she said. Was it Draco's imagination, or did she sound oh-so-slightly reluctant?

"I'll escourt you," he said on a sudden inspiration

"I'm just Apparating, silly!"

"Granger, I'm afraid I cannot allow a beautiful young witch to travel London alone at night."

"Since when did you become so - so - _gallant_?" she spluttered. Draco felt mildly insulted to be characterized as Gryffindorian for the second time that evening. Since he was a former Slytherin, did that mean he had to kick everyone in the shins to prove his mettle or something? "Anyway, you can't stand up your girlfriend," she said, sounding a bit relieved as Astoria reappeared.

"Oh, we're . . ." he trailed off, flustered.

"Honey, we're not dating," cut in Astoria smoothly. Hermione looked quite surprised.

"I just thought . . . because . . ."

"We were talking business, actually. Draco has graciously agreed to help me launch my dream business. Isn't that wonderful of him?" said Astoria innocently. Draco glared at her. He had certainly made no such agreement.

Hermione's eyes were luminous. She looked rapturously at Draco. "Oh! Draco, that's really, really great! Congratulations."

"Yes, he's given me a loan so I can open a Muggle fashion house."

Astoria glanced smugly at him, knowing that she had secured her loan by dragging Hermione into it. What a Slytherin thing to do.

"Anyway," said Hermione, looking at her watch with a faintly awkward air, "I should go back to my flat. Ron'll be waiting. Er, thanks again, Malfoy." And she was gone.

Oh, sickening. Ron was at her flat. He was the one who had consumed vast quantities of wasabi and then Disapparated, and he still got to sleep with her. Not - not that Draco would . . . if he got the chance.

The nausea was gone, to be replaced by pounding jealousy. He hadn't been lying about the cognitive dissonance. Everything was so confused.

Draco decided to get absolutely drunk.


	7. Of Angst and Violins

_"And hey, if I keep loving you, maybe you'll eventually crack and love me too. Hell, I'm pretty sure you're already half in love with me."_

_"I am not! And everything you just said is ridiculous. That's terrible logic."_

_Adrian returned to his crossword puzzle. "Well, you can think what you want, so long as you remember-no matter how ordinary things seem between us-I'm still here, still in love with you, and care about you more than any other guy, evil or otherwise, ever will."_

_"I don't think you're evil."_

_"See? Things are already looking promising." _

_-The Indigo Spell, _by Richelle Mead.

Draco's head was pounding when he woke.

"Bloody . . ." he mumbled, too drained to finish the feeble oath.

He sat up to find the room spinning alarmingly. Closing his eyes, Draco pressed the heels of his hands to his temples.

_Why am I so hung-over? _he wondered vaugely. He recalled something involving a dim corner of the Hog's Head and copious quantities of firewhiskey, but why had he been drinking? Draco only touched firewhiskey when thoroughly depressed. His hangover-clouded mind throbbed dully to come up with an answer.

Ah . . . yes. Hermione and Weasley at Blue Dragon, Hermione and Weasley meeting at her flat. How revolting.

. . .

_Why does that bother me so much again?_

_wondered Draco absently._

_Because he's not good enough for her._

_Oh. So, there's no jealousy factor at all?_

_No._

_Good. I was worried._

Somehow, Draco still hadn't convinced himself that he mightn't be the tiniest bit envious.

_Why do I have to be such a possessive person? It's exhausting . . ._

Hermione had some serious thinking to do.

It was time to end her romantic relationship with Ron.

The spark had gone out ages ago, really. It was just that neither of them had wanted to be the one to end it officially.

So, how to go about it? It was extremely delicate. They had been very close friends for most of their lives, and Hermione would rather die than lose Ron's friendship. They had suffered a lot together, and she wasn't willing to toss that aside just because he wasn't an exciting snogger anymore.

The problem was, Ron wasn't exactly the "let's stay friends" type. True, she didn't have much to compare with since -_cringe_- Lavender Brown had been his only other girlfriend, but somehow Hermione hypothesized that Ron would be more the "I hate you in sulky silence forever" type.

Hopefully, she was wrong.

Maybe I should just keep dating him until things fall apart naturally. That will save our friendship, right?

No way, Hermione. You are not going to end up married to your best friend because you were too spineless to break it off cleanly.

It was true. Hermione could practically smell a marriage proposal. Harry and Ginny had been married for some time, George's wife Angelina was pregnant, and Fleur was expecting her second child. If Hermione and Ron were ever going to 'end up' married, now was the time.

Yes, she had to end it before things got out of hand.

The next day, Draco felt considerably better. He made a metal note to look into finding a magical cure for hangovers, which as of yet did not exist, and prepared to go about the normal business of day-to-day life.

Oh, wait - he had to write Astoria a massive check. After some deliberation, Draco charged it to his personal account. This would be difficult to explain to Lucius as a business expense . . . _Oh, by the way, Father, I gave my ex-girlfriend a three-thousand Galleon check so she could go into the Muggle fashion industry. That's okay, right? _Yeah, not so much.

Draco idly toyed with the pen on his desk, doodling cubes and snowflakes in the margins of some old papers. He was bored. Clearly he needed a new project . . . Maybe he ought to follow Astoria's lead and go into Muggle industry. What could he sell? Musical instruments? Fancy soaps?

Wait, muscial instruments! I could learn how to play an instrument by hand. The . . . oh, the violin or something. What a fabulous idea.

Draco strode purposefully from his office, preparing to latch his singular determination onto playing a violin in the Muggle way. Yes, it was random, but at this point he would do aything to fill the existential gap.

Hermione waited nervously for Ron at her flat. He had offered to take her out for coffee, but she had declined, wanting to tell him in private.

He arrived, looking tall and red-haired and adorable. Hermione gulped, wondering if she hadn't made a terrible judgement call.

"Look, Ron. . ." she trailed off helplessly. Something in Ron's blue eyes seemed to change, and he put an arm around her.

"You're breaking up with me, aren't you?"

"I - yes." Without intending it, Hermione's eyes glassed over with tears.

"It's okay, 'Mione. I knew you were going to."

"You knew?"

"Yeah. He laughed sadly. "I'm not quite as tactless as you think I am. Maybe you rubbed off on me."

"Oh, don't!" cried Hermione.

"What?"

"Don't be all understanding and sweet. You're supposed to fight with me and make me feel totally justified, but now I wonder if I haven't made a terrible mistake!"

"Don't cry - please don't cry. It's not a mistake, I know as well as you do why we have to break up. The spark is completely gone."

"Is it? I wonder."

Ron kissed her. It was nice, but . . . boring. It was like kissing Crookshanks on the nose. Okay, stupid analogy, but it produced the same emotions. A sort of warm camaraderie was all that she felt.

"You're right," she agreed tiredly. "I'm just so relieved that I didn't have to be the one to say it. We had something, Ron, but in the end I think we're just better off as friends."

"Best friends. Don't forget that." He sighed. "We're just not right for one another romantically. It started off as 'opposites attract', but -"

"Yeah. We're diametrically opposed."

They stood awkwardly for a moment, Ron looking off into space, Hermione staring avidly at her shoes.

"Well, I'd better go and break the news to Ginny. Not that she'll be surprised," said Ron with a slightly bitter little laugh. "Goodbye, 'Mione."

"Bye."

Draco squinted at the sheet music in growing frustration. He was a natural at improvisation, but actual songs made his eyes cross slightly. He shook himself and tried to focus.

Hm.

It wasn't working. The violin had been a sort of early midlife crisis, a shallow attempt to amuse himself. _What a stupid idea. _What Draco needed was some meaning in his life, something that didn't come from firewhiskey or chance encounters with Granger.

Of course! The art collection.

Ever since the "original Malfoy" had been granted a piece of land in Wiltshire by William the Conqueror, the family had been collecting works of art. The building itself dated from the 1400's, when it had been torn down and rebuilt on a much grander scale. The art collection took up the entire east corridor.

Malfoy walked quickly to it, revelling in the collection of history and aesthetics combined. A perusal of the Muggle Hedonist manfesto, Oscar Wilde's _The Picture of Dorian Gray_, had sharpened his already-keen appreciation of the beautiful and useless.

He resolved to reorganize the entire corridor - arrange it according to aesthetic angle, not chronology. It contained all manner of specimens: Chinese pottery and Greek sculpture, French needlepoint and Flemish furniture, Maori carvings and Japanese lacquerware. It had a set of Russian wedding crowns and a massive Monolithic tabernacle that no one quite knew the origins of. It had a genuine Picasso and a false Vermeer. It had a fragment of the Berlin Wall and an intricate three-foot-tall wax model of Marie Antoinette's dog.

Draco wandered aimlessly about, dazzled as always, before coming to a stop in front of the family portaits. There was the first Lucius Malfoy, looking devious in his Elizabethan ruff. Crazy Asellus Malfoy waved a flask of arsenic around with undue enthusiasm. Alcor Malfoy and his wife Maia Peverell gazed haughtily out of their frames. As Draco progressed down the hall, the faces grew increasingly similar to his own. At last, he found himself staring into the unforgiving grey eyes of his father. The portrait didn't bother greeting his living son.

Narcissa Black Malfoy was lovely as ever and younger than Draco had ever seen her. She gave him a small smile. Draco moved on to his own portrait.

It had been taken recently, about six months ago. He was impeccably good-looking as ever, his pale marble-like features arranged in an expression of aristocratic hauteur. He looked incredibly bored.

"Get a life, why don't you," it remarked unexpectedly. Draco jumped in astonishment. The other Malfoys had been so silent that his own slightly drawling voice eminating from the canvas took him quite by surprise.

"Get your own life," he snapped irritably, too unnerved to come up with a witty rejoinder. The other Draco smirked at his feeble attempt and didn't even bother replying. The three-dimensional Draco glared poisonously at his painted counterpart and moved on.

There was a new addition. Lucius Malfoy had recently found it on the magical black market of Knockturn Alley. It had allegedly once been at Hogwarts, but the rumors were unconfirmed.

Without hesistation, Draco tugged the rough canvas covering off. It was a massive mirror, engraved with the words _Erised stira ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. _He stared up at it in fascination for a moment before his eyes drifted down and saw his reflection.

There was nothing especially unusual about the reflected image, expect that somehow it didn't look bored. How odd. It looked completely, radiantly fulfilled. Draco didn't know why the reflection looked that way, and it bothered him. It seemed to know a secret - the secret to happiness. As he watched, it smiled. A genuine smile, not a caustic smirk. Fierce jealousy gripped Draco, and he suppressed a sudden urge to smash the mirror. He threw the canvas back over it and stalked away, feeling unsatisfied.

That night, he dreamed of his entire family tree playing violins while his relfection laughed at him and kept handing him new pieces of art.

Hermione kicked off her shoes after another satisfying day at work. DEW could drag sometimes, but it was worth it when she solved a really difficult case.

An owl tapped at the window. It was neither Pigwidgeon nor Isolde, but an unfamiliar barn owl. Hermione accepted the note and fed it an owl treat.

_Dear Hermione Granger,_

_I am having a cocktail party on November 12 for certain people at the Ministry. I would be honored if you would attend! RSVP._

_Regards,_

_Parvati Patil_

So, Parvati was having a party. Hermione hadn't kept in touch with her, but had heard from someone that she had gone into the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes and done very well.

Was this invitation a result of Malfoy's efforts to bring her into society?

No. It's true that he was the one who technically introduced me to society, but I got noticed on my own talents. He might have invited any other witch and she might not have gotten noticed at all. Anything that happened, happened on my own steam.

If I keep telling myself that, maybe I'll believe it.

Well, she would go to the party anyway. It would be a good opportunity to rub elbows with influential Ministry contacts. Besides, Parvati might invite other old Hogwarts acquiantances, and Hermione would get to catch up with them.

As long as Malfoy didn't show up . . .

Draco stood languidly near the edge of the room at Parvati Patil's cocktail party. It was deadly dull. The same round of faces that had made an appearance at the Hallows Eve event gathered in the rented white marquee to congratulate one another on their pompously inflated egos.

The only person that he had willingly addressed thus far was his hostess, whom he had thanked soon after arriving. A few hopeful witches had approached him and tried to strike up conversation, having gotten wind of his newly single status, but Draco's frosty monosyllables made it abundantly clear that he wasn't interested.

Draco's pulse spiked involunarily. Hermione Granger was across the room, chatting with Patil and a few other witches. She was wearing _exactly_ the same Muggle dress that she had worn on her date with the Weasel - the cobalt blue halter-top. A large red silk poppy ornamented her upswept brown hair.

From his position, Draco could watch her shamelessly from across the marquee. Her every feature excited his irritation and adoration in equal measure.

_Jumped-up little Mudblood._

The old-fashioned curse sounded foreign, unexpected even to Draco's own mind. It was an antiquated term now, equivalent to the Muggle "n-word". Only Granger could ever make him hate himself like this. Only Hermione.

He had to lash out at her, to protect the crumbling walls around his heart.


	8. Of Snarkiness and Shattered Glass

_"So, your world's benign_

_So you think justice has a voice_

_And we all have a choice_

_Well, now your world is mine . . ._

_And I am fine."_

-"Everything You Ever", from _Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog_

Hermione looked up to see none other than Draco Malfoy making his way towards her across the crowded marquee. He looked like a predator.

Unconsciously, Hermione stiffened her spine and rolled her shoulders back.

She was chatting with Parvati Patil, Lavender Brown, and two other witches that Hermione didn't know. They were all wearing formal dress robes in muted purples and golds, and Hermione was feeling more than a little self-conscious already in her blue Muggle dress. The _last_ thing she needed was Malfoy, mystifying her with an odd mixture of manipulative flattery, caustic humor, outright unpleasantness, and unexpected gallantry. Which one was the "real" Malfoy? WHat did he want from her this time?

Granger's subtle fear at Draco's approach was highly entertaining. Really, it would be a shame _not_ to give her ego a knock at this point.

Pavarti was the first of the witches to see Malfoy, besides Hermione. She smiled genteelly and gestured slightly for him to join them. Hermione felt a quick dash of envy at her apparent grace and hospitality. She had always fantasized about being the perfect hostess, but never seemed to have the time.

All of the witches except Hermione gave Malfoy an appreciative once-over. Hermione _tsked_ lightly and looked deliberately over his head. Yes, the tailored bottle-green dress robes _were_ very flattering to his narrow-yet-toned torso, but the high collar made him look something like a vampire. _Not_ the Robert Pattinson kind, the Count Dracula kind. With unhealthily pale skin and a widow's peak that was apparent even under the longish platinum hair that was falling over his forehead _just so_ . . . Oh, forget it. Even Hermione had to admit that he looked terrific.

. . . Which didn't change anything. Of course.

He smirked, as though guessing her thoughts. His empty grey eyes penetrated her expressive chocolate-colored ones, reading everything they saw there without the need for Legilimency. She was an open book. Unsettled, she broke their brief eye contact. If she ever cared to test her theory, Hermione guessed that Draco was a _very_ accomplished Occlumens. It was part of the Slytherin package . . . emotional compartmentalization.

Lost in musings about Malfoy, Hermione had completely tuned out of the conversation. The sound of Draco's cold, drawling voice brought her sharply back to earth, as though he had splashed ice water over her head.

"So, Hermione . . . I must say, somehow I didn't expect to see you here," he said casually, sipping something alcoholic from a stemmed glass that Hermione was almost certain hadn't been there a moment before.

"Why not?" she bristled testily.

"Oh, I meant nothing by it, dear," he said, irony tinging his voice. "It's only that you refused the Ministry promotion. Shows a startling lack of ambition, no? Even for a former Gryffindor." He rolled his wrist lazily, swirling the ruby red contents of the glass.

"I don't understand what my lack of interest in Muggle diplomacy has to do with a party being held by an old friend," said Hermione coolly, staring at the glass. The garnet-like quality of the light filtering through the translucent liquid was mersermizing.

"Well, it sends a pretty clear message, do you not think?" he remarked. He might have been discussing the weather if not for the ominous gleam in his eyes. "To distance oneself from Muggle diplomacy in today's climate is to distance oneself from popular opinion."

Hermione took the bait.

"Oh, because everyone knows you're the _poster child_ for acceptance of the nonmagical community," she scoffed sarcastically. The other witches looked eagerly back and forth between them, as though watching a tennis match. The competitors, however, had forgotten them.

"Actually, yes. That is exactly what I am," he asserted. "You probably didn't notice, but the soirée of last month was quite a success. Imagine, the son of the most infamous pureblood elitist of today, cordially inviting the Muggles' Prime Minister to a traditional wizarding event!"

She opened her mouth to respond, looking absolutely mutinous. Malfoy cut in before she could.

"Oh, I don't mean to belittle _your_ part in the evening, Hermione," he said condescendingly. "But, really . . . After playing your part so _well_, it's really a pity that you had to go jilting the most rapidly-expanding department in the Ministry. Why, just the other day, the Minister was saying -"

"Oh, shut up! _Shut up!_" she said angrily. Quite a crowd was assembling by now, attracted like sharks by the smell of blood. "And _don't_ call me Hermione," she snapped, à la Vivian Leigh.

"As you wish, Granger," he said emotionlessly.

Something in Hermione broke. Hot liquid fury broke from somewhere deep inside, filling her veins like lit gasoline. She _hated_ him, his pointed face, his stupid colorless hair, his expensive clothes, his fit body, his sneering mouth, his emotionless grey eyes, fixed on her, always fixed on _her_.

The glass in his hand shattered into a thousand pieces, flying apart like an explosion of deadly white glitter. Everyone gasped, tripping over each other in their haste to get away. A few people screamed. The incriminaing fragments littered the ground like small knives. A fine layer of powdered glass settled on the hair of the witch and wizard standing in the middle of the mess, glaring at each other. Malfoy's clothing was drenched in the crimson liquid, whatever it had been. With one rippling motion, everyone's accusatory gaze settled on the witch in a Muggle dress. This was no accident, and everyone knew it.

Hermione gasped, trying to distance herself from him like everyone else had. Shining like a scarlet letter on his face was a thin line of blood, working its way down his cheek.

"Oh, my God," she breathed. "I'm . . . I'm so sorry." She turned desperately to look att he other guests, searching for a shred of sympathy. She met only antagonism, radiating from the whole room like heat.

The only person who didn't look as though they fervently desired to expel her from the planet was the one standing in front of her. His expression was, as always, blank and unreadable as a flat expanse of marble. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes.

Parvati stepped forward. It was her duty as the hostess to take care of this mess.

"Mr. Malfoy, are you hurt?"

He raised a hand to his face, seeming mildly surpised and interested when his fingers came away tipped with vermilion.

"It would seem so."

"Do you need to go to St. Mungo's?"

"I think not. If you'll excuse me, Miss Patil, I think I must leave. Thank you for inviting me."

The formalities sounded awkward and out-of-place. Without a backward glance, he Disapparated. Aloneness twisted Hermione's vitals as she faced the tentful of irate and scandalized wizards.

"I can clean it . . ." she attempted feebly. Her words fell on the empty silence with a heaviness that was almost tangible. Without a word, Parvati began Vanishing the glass pieces. Hermione took the hint and left the marquee, her vision blurred by hot tears. Once she was outside, the cool night hair stinging her face, she Disapparated.

When Hermione opened her eyes, she had no idea where she was. Disoriented, she stumbled sideways and tripped, falling on smooth grass.

She lay there for a moment, breathing in the calming, familiar scent of grass. It had always been a favorite of hers, even manifesting itself in the Amortentia that she had smelled in her sixth year at Hogwarts. Her heartbeat slowed gradually. Hermione sat up, feeling rather as though she was emerging from water and could only now breathe freely.

She was on a wide, sloping lawn, with the indistict dark shapes of trees and shrubbery off to her left. To her right, a gravelled pathway led up a gently sloping hill to the hulking outline of what was unmistakeably Malfoy Manor.

Hermone sighed. In her agitation, she had Apparated to the first place on her mind.

Draco reappeared directly inside the imposing wrought-iron gates of the manor. He _could_ potentially have Apparated right onto the doorstep or even inside the building itself, but tonoght he wanted to take the long walk himself.

He set off, the cold air lashing at the open cut on his face. His fingers traced it lightly again. The cut was paper-thin, but surprisingly deep.

He couldn't get Granger out of his mind. He didn't begrudge her the glass-shattering incident . . . He had baited her with full understanding of the possible consequences. Hell, if he was honest with himself, he had almost been expecting it. Unconscious magic was a very powerful force even in trained wizards, and Granger wasn't exactly the best at marshalling her emotions. Strong, yes, clever, oh yes, but terribly vulnerable. This was _exactly_ the kind of weakness that Draco made it his personal business to avoid allowing in his own mind. His brain had the efficiency, coldness, and self-reflexive insanity of a military state.

Something ghostly white drifted out of the darkness. Draco didn't even flinch; he was well-accustomed to the sight of an albino peacock or two wandering the grounds at will.

What he was not accustomed to was for mysterious shadowy figures to follow them.

Draco cursed, fumbling for his wand. When he found it, he muttered "Lumos!" and pointed it threateningly at the intruder.

The beam of wandlight illuminated none other than Hermione Granger, who looked equally startled to see him.

"Draco!" she said, her voice scaling an octave higher than usual. "I - I'm sorry!"

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked bluntly.

"I couldn't just go home without making things right," she said quietly, looking at the ground. Draco suddenly realized that she had been crying.

"Here, come with me." She followed him repentantly, lighting her own wand as they walked towards the manor.

Outside the door, Draco leaned slightly to whisper. _"Dotty is already off work for the night. She'll be asleep, but we ought to be quiet. The accoustics of this place are amazing."_

For once, he wasn't bragging for the sake of bragging. Granger nodded, looking slightly taken aback at his evident concern for Dotty's welfare. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, just because he kept his heart under lock and key didn't mean that he lacked one.

Hermione's heart was thudding heavily as she stepped across the threshold of Malfoy Manor. The vast space was dark and forebodingly empty in the almost-total darkness. The beams from their wands reflected eerily off the highly polished floor and winking chandelier.

A warm, dry hand encircled her wrist. Hermione jumped slightly. Somehow, Malfoy's touch wasn't quite as repulsive at it had been at the Ministry hearing a month earlier.

He led her to a dramatically smaller room, off to the right of the foyer, and flicked on the light. To Hermione's shock, it looked like a room one might find a normal house: slightly chipped yellow paint, a table, two green chairs, and a cabinet off to the side. Malfoy released her wrist and went to the cabinet, rummaging around for something. Hermione stood there awkwardly, hands clasped behind her back.

Malfoy tuned around, holding a little bottle. Hermione recognized it at once. She had used an identitcal product on various occasions: Essense of Dittany.

He unscrewed the lid. Instictively, Hermione stopped him.

"No, let me," she said quietly. He looked doubfully at her. "Trust me, it's almost impossible to heal oneself," she insisted, taking the bottle.

She poured a drop onto the still-bleeding cut to instantly dinifect it. She then began delicately probing it with her fingers, testing the depth and checking to see if there were any remaining shards of glass. Finding none, Hermione poured a small amount of liquid directly into the cut. Malfoy sucked in his breath sharply.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I wasn't expecting . . ." He flinched slightly as she extended her fingertips toward his face again.

"I have to double-check to make sure I didn't just seal any glass inside your skin," she hissed. "I'm going to feel even more awful than I already do if it gets infected . . ."

Draco considered making one more attempt to stop her gentle fingers from brushing over his face again, but knew that it would be no use. He had seen this raw determination in her eyes before, and it never boded well for anyone to get in her way.

Her touch was soft yet insistent, a Healer's hand. She probed his cheekbone without apology, her fingertips coming to rest on the place just below his left cheekbone. Draco's heart sank.

"What the hell? . . ." she mumbled, running her hand over the spot again. Draco's head jerked back abruptly.

"Thank you," he said stiffly. "For the Healing, and the apology."

The subject change wasn't working.

"Malfoy . . ." her tone was warning, "is that by any chance a _massive piece of glass_ embedded in your flesh?!"

"And if it is?" he challenged irritably, remembering to keep his voice low at the last minute.

Granger's hand flew to her mouth. "_Malfoy!_ Do you have any idea how _dangerous_ that is?!" she demmanded in a whisper-shout.

"It's not your fault," he added hastily, unwilling to let her think even for a moment that his subdermal scar was a result of tonight's incident. "Not _directly_, anyway," he added as an afterthought.

"You have some _serious_ explaining to do," she insisted.

"Er, before we take a trip down memory lane, I think I really ought to change clothes."

"What?"

"Well, you just doused me with elvin wine, after all." He pretended to pout slightly. "I'm quite put out with you, Granger. Expensive wine, expensive robes. Never a good combination in close proximity." On that note, he suddenly Apparated to his room.

Five minutes later, Draco (now wearing black trousers and a white Oxford shirt) and Granger (still in the blue dress) sat across from each other at the table in the yellow room. Granger was gnawing on her lower lip; Draco couldn't decide whether to be entertained or irritated.

"So, what in the name of Merlin is that thing under your skin, why is it there, and how am I indirectly involved?" she demmanded.

Draco hesitated. "You do remember . . . the first time you came to the manor."

Granger's eyes widened at the reminder of her kidnapping and subsequent torture. Draco hurried on before he lost his nerve.

"And when the chandelier fell?"

"Ye-es," said Granger slowly.

"You may not remember that I was directly underneath when it fell."

"Considering -" her voice broke, "that I was almost unconscious with pain at the time," she drew a shuddering breath, "you'll forgive me for not remembering that particular detail."

On an impluse, Draco took her hands across the table. She flinched slightly, and Draco pulled back as if burned, silently cursing himself for his thoughtlessness.

"If you think I wasn't experiencing all seven levels of hell whilst you were being tortured, then you're fully insane," he said fervently. The words came out of his mouth of their own accord, leaving both Draco and Granger speechless for a moment.

He cleared his throat to break the loaded silence. He still couldn't look her in the eyes. Not yet.

"Yes. Well. I had never experienced so much pain in my life, and yes, I am including the ceremony during which I was branded with the Dark Mark and all of the manifold times that the Cruciatus curse has been used against me. As a reminder, I asked my mother to leave the largest crystal shard in my face. It's healed, now," he added, as though that would dispel the tension.

"Can I . . ." her voice was slightly rough with emotion. "May I touch it again?"

Reluctantly, Draco tilted his head slightly back. Gently, she held his chin in one hand. Draco was forcibly reminded of the time when she had discovered that he was manipulating her for personal gain. Everything was so different now, though he couldn't say what had changed.

Gingerly, gingerly, she touched the layer of skin over the crystal shard. Draco knew that she could feel its hardness through the healed skin, but he couldn't feel her fingertips anymore. It was truly surreal.

At last, he looked Hermione full in the face. He could practically count her eyelashes. Her wide brown eyes, flecked with gold, were alarmingly near, studying the space under his cheekbone as though he was a fascinating, inhuman work of art. As if that wasn't enough to drive him half-mad, she was biting her lip ever-so-slightly. Draco _so_ needed to feel her pearl-pink lips against his.

Her gaze rose to his eyes. Her eyes, incapable of hiding any emotion, filled with curiosity and a slight tinge of fear. Their expression of naive confusion was almost irresistible.

Being Draco Malfoy, he resisted.

He stood suddenly, forcing her to let go of him.

"It's late," he deadpanned. "Do you want me to take you to your flat, or . . ."

Hermione picked up the hint. "I'll be fine, thanks. It _is_ late. I really have to go."

Relieved, Draco turned to leave.

"Draco . . ."

The sound of his given name made him pause. "Yes?"

"Thank you."

Unseen by Hermione, the smallest hint of a smile played around his mouth. "You're welcome."


	9. Interchaper -- Hermione's Musings

AN: Sorry for the slow update; my life kind of imploded a bit. I could probably come up with a really long list of excuses that no one would be interested in hearing. This is a short chapter. I hope to complete it at some near point in the future, but I figured that I might as well upload what I have thus far since it's been ages since my last update. I miss angsty Draco! . . . Oops, did I type that out loud?

AN2: Shiz. I was just looking this over, and it seems I couldn't even remember to find a witty and/or pertinent quote for the chapter beginning. Okay, I swear on my English grade that the next chapter will be absolutely stunning and super-long and lovely and I will _make them kiss _to compensate for this non-chapter.

Hermione sighed heavily, throwing herself facedown on her bed, arms and legs spreadeagled. All was wrong with the world, seemingly. Her job was still crushingly boring, she was still feeling vaguely regretful over her breakup with Ron, and she now suspected that the Weasleys were avoiding her. It had been two weeks since the glass-shattering incident at Parvati's party (followed by the brief sojourn at Malfoy Manor), and Hermione was none-too-popular with the Wizarding community. Most people who hadn't actually been present had heard about it anyway. Some sided with her, thinking that Malfoy shouldn't have insulted her like that, but most seemed to think that Hermione ought to have been better at controlling her magic.

So, life was currently as bad as it had gotten since the end of the war. She was jaded, unpopular, and alone. Less than a year ago, she had been a cautiously optimistic young witch emerging from grief and ready to tackle the Wizarding world head-on. What had happened?

It was clearly time for some hard-core life analysis, one problem at a time.

First problem: Dissatisfaction with job.

Cause: Boring job.

Solution: Promotion.

Obstacle: Thanks to Draco, she had turned down an undeserved promotion, leading the Ministry to think that she was unambitious and/or Muggle-hating. Another promotion offer was probably not in her immediate future.

Second problem: Loneliness after breakup.

Cause: Normal human emotions.

Solution: Socialize more. Get back in touch with the Weasleys, make more friends, etc.

Obstacle: Thanks to Draco, the Wizarding world now thought that she was an emotionally unstable mage with anger issues who couldn't have a slightly heated discussion without using unconscious magic to smash something.

Third Problem: General dissatisfaction with self.

Cause: Probably Draco. In fact, almost certainly Draco. He had been the Estella to her Pip, building up her dreams of power, offering her a taste of the glittering world of high society, then psycologically abusing her by revealing that it had all been a ploy for personal gain. After that, he couldn't just leave her in peace, but insisted on being alternately snarky and gallant. (With an awkward, Slytherinish sort of gallantry. It was quite adorkable, actually . . . _No!_ She needed to focus on the problem at hand.) Then there was this whole business with the subdermal crystal shard . . . What was that about? Was it yet another manifestation of his psychopathy, or a meaningful statement of some kind?

"_If you think I wasn't experiencing all seven levels of hell whilst you were being tortured, then you're fully insane . . ."_

Oh, dear Merlin. Her heart would have to be metal not to flutter at that.

Why did he have to be so . . .

Hermione's nimble brain almost short-circuited trying to think of one all-encompassing adjective for Draco Malfoy. Inscrutable? Interesting? Infuriating? Insidious?

Ineffable.

Clearly, a conversation _avec_ Ginny was necessary to help sort out her . . . whatever this was. Hermione sat up rather reluctantly and reached for a quill and parchment. She would post it at work the next day, borrowing one of the Ministry owls. Really, not having her own owl could be such a hassle at times.

As though summoned by telekinetic energy, a tapping came at the window. Hermione looked up sharply. It was a rather ruffled-looking grey owl, one that she didn't recognize. She opened the window with an impatient snap. It hopped onto the windowsill and held out a little violet-ribboned scroll.

_My dear Miss Granger:_

_Hello, dear! It must be a bit of a surprise to hear from your old Potions master after all this time, but I've been very busy - and from what I hear, so have you!_

_In the tradition of my time with the Slug Club (ah, how nostalgic!), I'm having a little Christmas party this year. Nothing too crowded, just a little gathering for a few of my old favorites. December 22, at my new place in Pimlico. I've hired that new Greek band, Euridice's Harp, to provide entertainment, and Blue Dragon is catering. I do so hope you'll come!_

_Sincerely,_

_Your favorite professor,_

_Horace Slughorn_

_Ps. If you do manage to make it to my little party, I will be able to introduce you to Rubens Winikus, the famous potioneer._

Hermione rolled her eyes good-naturedly. Ah, Slughorn. Grandiose beneficiary and unashamed brown-noser in equal proportions. Her winter was becoming a never-ceasing round of parties and social events . . . Another Malfoy-caused phenomenon, she had to suspect. Whether she liked it or not, he had really gotten her on the radar. Now she was indebted to him, _again_! Oh, awful thought.

Well, she wouldn't screw this one up. This could be her chance to redeem herself from the incident at Parvati's party! Hermione began planning the evening in her head. She would be charming, witty, and, of course, _très élégante._ Perhaps she ought to purchase a bottle of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion . . .

Wait a moment! Was she becoming one of those shameless social-climbers without realizing it?!

Honestly, her life used to be so much easier before all of these parties and promotions . . . Well, obviously, there had been the war, and that was . . . awful. But afterwards, there had been a brief equilibrium period of a few years, when everything had seemed pretty damn near perfect. She had her then-exciting new job at the ministry. She and Ron had been "going steady". Her parents were home from Australia, their memories flawlessly restored. She had a close circle of really good friends - Harry, Luna, Ginny, Neville, and, obviously, Ron. Now, everyone seemed to be drifting away, and her job was a dull chore. Was this what life was truly like? After a brief, blossoming period of bliss, life was becoming lonely, and more that a bit bland. Maybe she should just resign herself to her fate and, as Ron would say, "get on with it". . . Stop trying for a promotion . . . Save her hopes and dreams for another day . . . Get a house in the suburbs . . . Start wearing uber-conservative skirts and pulling her hair back in unnecessarily severe buns . . . Marry some tweedy, slightly balding youngish wizard from the Department of Magical Equipment Control . . . Have some kids that were near-identical genetic replicas of herself and name them all "Hugo" or something . . .Wait, wait, she was getting ahead of herself.

Hermione gave a rather humorless chuckle. No, not she, Hermione Granger. At the ripe old age of twenty-two, she wasn't ready to resign herself to a pattern-cut bourgeois lifestyle. Maybe there was a bit of Slytherin in her after all, because she was finally ready to give this whole "ambition" thing a try.

"Well, you've certainly been pensieve lately."

Ginny raised an eyebrow at Hermione, managing to look gently dubious despite the fact that she was holding a water-gushing hose and her pants were streaked with dirt.

The two witches were in the Potters' winter-bared garden. A thin crust of snow crackled underfoot. Harry had had to dash into work on some sort of urgent last-minute essential _thing_, leaving them some alone time. Privately, Hermione was a little relieved; there were simply some things (rather a lot of things, actually) that she simply couldn't discuss with Harry. He was excellent, but he just wouldn't _understand._

Of course, Ginny too was having a hard time grasping whatever it was that Hermione was trying to tell her. It was all a bit abstract and random.

"Please, try to understand," pleaded Hermione, "it's a bit of a life crisis."

"So you said, but I still don't _see_ exacly how." She shot another shrewd look in her friend's direction, then proceeded to shower the leafless lilac tree with a gush of water. "Is anything _wrong_? I mean, something concrete. Wait, are you sad about Ron?"

Hermione considered this for a moment, running a hand through her wildly wavy hair. "No, I don't think so. I mean, yes, I was. Actually, I think I was more regretful than sad, you know? Like, I regret that we weren't able to maintain a good relationship, and this will probably make things awkward for a while, but I know it was for the best. Our personalities were never suited to each other, and let's just face it, Ron and I had no chemistry. Well, we did at first, but honestly I think at least part of it came from the nonstop adrenaline rush of the war plus everything that we'd shared together."

"That's how it was with me and Harry, I think," said Ginny, absently near-drowning a frozen azaelea. "Only we _do_ have great chemistry and compatible personalities, so everything worked out really well."

"Exactly," said Hermione, relieved that someone understood her at last.

"So, Ron's not the problem." Ginny turned off the hose. "What's causing all this angst, Hermione?" She smiled good-naturedly to show that she was half-joking.

"To be perfectly honest. . ." Hermione trailed off, biting her lip nervously. "Wait, why did you use a hose instead of just _Augamenti_?"

"International Statute of Secrecy, obviously."

"But Godric's Hollow is a Wizarding community."

"Yeah, but it still has a mostly-Muggle population. Our next-door neighbors, the Flannigans and the Gujarats, are as nonmagical as as Harry's aunt . . . Well, maybe not _that_ nonmagical, but still. We have to be cautious. Imagine if Mrs. Flannigan was looking out of her upstairs window and saw me shooting a jet of water out of a stick! She might be a little suspicious, no?"

"Oh, I see."

Ginny discreetly wiped her slightly muddy hands on her jeans. "Let's go inside, I'm freezing. Plus, I want to hear what you were about to say before you changed the subject!"

Hermione smiled in exasperation. She sometimes didn't know whether Ginny's sharp memory was more a blessing or an annoyance.


End file.
